Murder Song
by coddiwomple
Summary: "I know he knows that he's killing me for mercy." [Eighth Year / Murder Mystery / Slow Burn / formerly Better Tomorrow]
1. Prologue: When September Ends

_**PROLOGUE**_

Hollow were the veins, reaping what they sewed in knowledge. Interchangeable expressions passed between the trifecta. Raven, crimson, chestnut. Her cheeks roasted embers from the chill of the September morning. Flames held her a little longer than the night, stroking her spine and leaving a lingering kiss upon her jaw. Wet and sloppy. Perhaps it would improve, and measure up to the passion she felt in Salazar's chambers. His arms were stiff and awkward, less reassuring than during the battle. She felt lead in her stomach, which made it drop into her shoes when he pulled away from her. Green eyes blazed with a sort of mischief that she suddenly found herself missing. He had no idea.

"Promise me you'll write this year." Hermione's voice trembled a little when she realized that the moment she set foot on this train, she would be without them. Like losing a right and left hand, the girl suddenly felt handicapped. She gulped down her abandonment issues, reaching out to straighten Ron's jumper, even though it was hardly out of place. "I would really appreciate it." The encouragement was more to the boy with fire in his hair, but when he had refused to nod, Harry had done it for him.

"We will." He said, his tone solid and reassuring. Her stomach sank a little more into her shoes, filling them with a heaviness that almost disabled her from movement entirely. The raven-haired boy with round glasses and blinding green eyes slipped between the apparent couple, wrapping his arms firmly around Hermione's waist. She sniffled into his shoulder and clutched him very tightly to her chest. "I'll keep him out of trouble." He jested, making a small chuckle whisp from her mouth, dribbling with silent tears onto his jumper. He patted down her wild curls for effect, frowning to find just how stiff her neck was from the stress of this kind of goodbye. Hermione could have sworn that she felt his eyes close as his chin met her shoulder.

He would miss her. He said it in the way he squeezed her waist and pulled back to drink in the familiarity and comfort of her face. Hermione nodded in response, needing little else than the brief longing that flashed across his emerald eyes. Harry nodded back, forcing himself to release her, knowing that he could seek no such comfort anywhere other than her. Catastrophic war had caused links to thicken and loop tighter tendrils around the trio. Separation only caused anxiety. What if something happened and he was not there to save her? What if Hogwarts was not safe? Hermione could see the minor interruption of concern on his face and, for effect, shook her head with her traditional knowing smirk, reaching up to clasp the side of his neck. He tensed under her touch, instantly reminded of her being an island when he found her palm to be smooth on his scruff, confident and calm, in spite of the wariness in her gaze, which now glimmered with restrained tears.

"Don't." She said, making Harry nod in return, guiding his fingers around her wrist to squeeze for effect. The Hogwarts Express released a howl of warning, billowing through them. It rumbled in their chests and Hermione's shoes felt a little lighter from the comforting familiarity that resounded around them.

"Better get going, then." Harry said finally, gently tugging her palm from his neck. He gave her a telling smirk, unable to hide that longing in his eyes. He knew the cost, he knew her passion. It was with Hogwarts, where his was not. "Before I do." He justified, making a single whisper of a laugh bleat quickly past her lips. A staccato humor, Harry mused as he smirked down at her. She tucked a wry curl behind her ear and he appreciated her bookish prettiness just for a moment. He recalled her eyes being set with an uncanny sort of bravery, glinting with telling danger, whipping spells at Snatchers like it was nobody's business. _Clever Hermione_. He thought to himself, and Hermione could tell with a heavy tint of red in her cheeks, that she was being thoroughly loved by her best friend.

"Alright." Hermione said, swiping at the tears trickling along her cheeks. "Alright, I'm going." She stepped away from Harry. They looked at one another with understanding, knowing that this type of space would only worsen. Ron's expression contorted in surfacing sadness, hating to see love leave like this. Hermione forced a smile and gave them a timid, humble wave for a farewell, right before brushing her clean palms on her denim-clad thighs. She gave them one last lingering look, implementing every fiber of them into her well-defined memories. Moving her feet felt like erupting earthquakes as she turned away from Harry and Ron, looping her thin fingers around the bar beside the entrance to one of the train cars. Hoisting herself up, she was scaling Mount Everest, forcing herself not to look back as she disappeared into the contraption and made her way to one of the compartments.

Harry Potter felt Ronald Weasley's hand create a firm grip around his shoulder, shaking him from his thoughts. He felt a sense of desperation climbing up into his throat as Hermione had vanished from sight, only to appear behind glass, looking out at them from what he saw as a cage. Willing and docile. She had a stiff, rigid spine as her eyes traveled repeatedly between the two of them. She had lifted her hand briefly, almost tempted to wave them into the cage with her, but she thought against it. Harry knew better, and so did Ron. The duo frowned, visibly suffocated by the space.

"She'll be alright, mate." Ron managed, though his voice choked halfway through the cliche sentiment. Harry frowned further.

"Yeah..." Harry trailed off. Ron gulped audibly, knowing precisely just what words dropped off from his best friend's lips. _We won't be, though_. The statement, though mute, rang truer than the horn blasting from the Hogwarts Express one final time as the steam billowed in white clouds from its stem and it jerked into motion. The Golden Duo, suddenly helpless without the brains of the operation, stood glued to their spot as Hermione's form retreated. Light from Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters blocked her from view and Harry and Ron simultaneously tilted their heads just in time to catch a glimpse of another precarious wave. They both raised their hands once, but never waved when they realized it was much too late.

"Jus' hope she can survive without us." Ron managed.

"Suppose so." Harry replied, knowing his redheaded friend's usual means of defense.

"'S just as well, I reckon. She'll be running right back to us, come Christmas. Teary 'n desperate." Ron's voice was a little choked.

"How d'you figure that, Ron?" Harry asked, a mild irritation in his voice.

Ron shrugged in response. "Saw Malfoy stepping onto the train while you were sayin' your goodbyes."

Harry froze for a moment, a sense of jealous possession swarming his gut. Albeit furious that Ronald had refused to say anything up until this moment, Harry swallowed a wad of frustration. War tainted most, but the Malfoy family was just a name that teetered a very dangerous brink. Not evil, nor good. They just _were_ and Harry never truly found the courage to accept such terms, particularly so fresh after the near-end of the freedom of the magical world. After clenching and unclenching his fists a few times, he stepped consciously away from the visual of the retreating rear of the Hogwarts Express.

"She'll be fine." Harry reasoned, more for himself than Ron, who now had his mouth scrunched to the side in mild concern for the raven-haired boy's temper. "You heard her. She's on a mission."

Ron nodded firmly as Harry turned back to face him, practically ripping his eyes away from the familiarity of that train. Potter suddenly wished he had reconsidered; that he had climbed aboard and heeded Hermione's almost-wave of welcome. Ron, on the other hand, felt a fraction of relief that space was being given, and that Hermione never truly stopped being Hermione.

"Yeah." Ron forced a small scoff, tugging on Harry's arm so the two of them could vacate the platform. "We both know how terrifying she can be if anyone gets in her way."


	2. The Long and Winding Road

A/N: I probably ought to explain that there are some different castings in this fic. As Narcissa was supposed to be blonde in the books, I've chosen to replace her actress with Julie Benz. Furthermore, the character to be introduced in this chapter (an original character of my own creation) will be "played by" the model Felice Fawn.

This fanfiction is also inspired by the song "Better Tomorrow" by Tina Guo. I have an insurmountable abundance of gratitude towards this woman's skill in music, and I thank her deeply for the inspiration her work has provided me.

That is all for now. To make up for the short prologue, I will be making this chapter significantly longer.

* * *

 ** _WELCOME HOME_**

Narcissa Malfoy was a woman of regality. Shoulders back, chin high, and poised with a rather permanent, intimidating, and almost beautiful scowl on her face. Half-breeds and Mudbloods swarmed, infecting her air, which her nose promptly crinkled at. Her hands were perfectly clasped together, habitually hovering over her abdomen with her elbows bent. To her left, a very primed husband lingered. His white-blonde hair was smooth again, hanging around his shoulders, trimmed and well-groomed. Much like her own, which was pulled into an elegant bun at the back of her skull. To her right, her precious son, who kept his locks much shorter than his father's. Her men, protectively stationed on either side of her. The matriarch firm in her place. Narcissa was pleased to see that such angels had managed to cling just barely to their proper ranks. The Malfoys, indeed, immaculate once more.

There was an innate sense of completion, following their time in the Great Hall at Hogwarts, where they sat, uncomfortable in the celebration. Unwilling to leave the fervent cheers of the students, the faculty, and all other modes of good. Narcissa had been placed (as usual) with solid barricades on either side, between husband and son. They were placed discreetly in the furthest corner of the Great Hall, at the old Slytherin table, where she dimly recalled her youth, and the moment where she decided that Lucius would be the man she was going to marry. While the events drawled on in almost rageful happiness, though very few words had been spoken, redemption crawled along, from heart to hand, and her fingers succumbed to the silent call of his. Thin digits slipped between the cracks and squeezing tightly. Lucius was tight-lipped and said little, showing little more than a flash of warmth before he succumbed to a stoic, guarded demeanor. Narcissa stole into that sliver of warmth and allowed it to fill her as she reached for her son's hand as well, gripping both limbs tightly, on the verge of tears. A Black never cried, so she withheld painfully, mustering a straight-lined smile, still with her chin turned up, nose in the air. Perhaps the future would be better.

Narcissa dimly recalled their arrival home, set upon the hallowed ground post-battle. The millisecond the Malfoys breached the main foyer, a burden lifted. Stepping foot across the threshold, the Malfoy Manor appeared lighter and less hollow. The humans dwelling just within the entrance were filthy, sore, and homesick. Much like the state of their sanctuary. Still, a warm sense of security and calm radiated from the walls, which were suddenly happy that no other unwelcomed guests would be breaking through its wards. The rooms expanded, as if taking their first breaths of fresh air. The floor boards were firm. Walls strove up, pushing the roof of this callous temple boldly towards the skies, challenging the stars. Serenity oozed, black and green, into the veins of its residents, allowing them a solemn reprieve, and every inch of Malfoy Manor whispered the very same melancholy tune; one that only they could dance to.

 _Welcome home._

"Merlin..." Lucius' words brought Narcissa from her thoughts. At first, she turned to her husband, reaching gently for the crook of his elbow to see if his troubles were more personal. She felt Draco stop next to them, his distant, steel gaze sweeping over them momentarily before he followed his father's gaze and observed the scene. "It's Fawley." The patriarch hissed, a strong tone of disdain in his voice. Narcissa's gaze widened in disbelief, turning away from her husband to peer around her son's head. Warily, she extended her free arm to tug at Draco's sleeve, urging him closer to her side protectively.

"You mean _Victor_ Fawley?" Narcissa asked, though she did not need to look at Lucius to know that the answer was affirmative. She felt her husband's fingers coil around her hand, which still rested on his arm. She leaned into him instinctively. "What on earth would he be doing here?"

The Malfoys went silent for a moment. Draco was tense, clenching his jaw. Abruptly, the subject of their attention turned. Victor was a tall, towering man. Extremely intimidating in his demeanor. He had a gaze of the sharpest blue, cutting through anybody who was unfortunate enough to fall under his scrutinizing gaze. His eyes traveled skeptically through the crowd. Draco was almost positive that the man could have sliced every single Platform attendee in half just from observation alone. He had dark hair that appeared ragged, hanging in his eyes loosely.

However, the real anomalie resided to Victor's left, almost instantly catching the eye of - not only the Malfoys - but every single passerby on the Platform. Next to Victor Fawley, a raven-haired girl stood. If there was ever a significance to size differences, this would be it. The girl at Victor's side was terribly thin, with a large, black jumper that hung so loosely on her form, she was practically swimming in it. However, in spite of the oversized nature of her clothing, the pants she was wearing were tight and made of a rather flexible fabric. Metal hung in a loop around her right nostril. A piercing? Draco's nose crinkled with disgust. On her feet were thick leather boots; spikes at the heel. Platforms. Perhaps to make up for her short height without them. Almost everything she wore appeared to be a testament to how tiny she really was. Her lips were painted in thick black lipstick. Her eyes lined with _noir_. She almost looked like a vampire, with the raven decorations contrasting almost translucent flesh. Victor's pale hand wrapped around her petit shoulder did little more than make her appear painfully fragile. She looked up to her father with a vacant, almost eerie expression, showing no emotion as he turned her to him, appearing to give her instruction. Though he appeared vehement, she barely nodded, only watching him.

"Lucius, isn't that his daughter?" Narcissa asked almost hurriedly. Draco glanced briefly back to his mother when he heard her speak, but he appeared more interested in the strangeness of this girl. His lip curled in mild abhorrence of her appearance. "I thought she was attending Beauxbatons Academy?"

Lucius went suddenly tight-lipped for a brief stint. Narcissa's gaze traveled curiously to her husband. "Well." He began, puffing out his chest slightly. "After Victor's fall from grace, we shouldn't be surprised that he's had to make a few... adjustments." The Malfoy patriarch turned his nose into the air slightly, almost making it visible to his family that he no longer wished to dwell on the topic. However, he could feel the gaze of his son falling upon him in mild curiosity from the vagueness of the statement.

The Hogwarts Express hooted loudly, beckoning the students welcome. The blonde trifecta shifted from their spots. Lucius glanced briefly back towards Fawley and instantly regretted it. The large brute met his eyes with mind-melting force, his gaze darkening. Shame on the name of Death Eater or not, Fawley had always been a force that even Voldemort advised not reckoning with. He was powerful, rich, and deadly to anybody who crossed him. When he disappeared, he was hardly pursued. Lucius' blood ran colder than usual when he met Fawley's eyes. Clearing his throat, he lightly careened his wife and son out of Fawley's sight, shuddering to feel the ex-Death Eater's gaze lingering upon his spine.

Approaching the entrances for one of the train cars, the Malfoy family stopped. Narcissa released her grip on Lucius' arm, turning towards her son. She drew him in for an embrace, closing her eyes almost mournfully when she felt him stiffen. His palms rested idly and awkwardly on her sides, unaccustomed to her affections, though she gave them often. She whispered words of caution and words of love into his ear, urging him to be on his best behavior. As if that had ever worked in the past. Draco's indiscretions were not exactly unknown when it came to his school behavior, particularly when he had been caught with Parkinson, tucked in romantic embrace in one of the corridors during their fourth year. The Yule Ball held far better memories than he cared to admit, and her mother would often tut at him, encouraging him to be more respectful, though not entirely reprimanding him.

"Keep on your guard, Draco." Lucius said, pointing his nose sharply downward in a nod towards his son. He never pushed the boundaries to hug him, but there was a vague sense of respect in his stare, which caused Draco to return the nod in kind. The corner of Lucius' lips twitched on the left; a symbol of the replenishment of a void he had not quite gotten his fill of. Lucius had never been the most affectionate man. At best, he would place a hand on his son's shoulder for the briefest of moments before he ushered Draco along.

He said nothing, merely allowing his father's hand to curl around the back of his neck in encouragement, lightly guiding him towards the entrance of the train car. With one last look at his parents, Draco disappeared through the entrance and chose to occupy an empty compartment; one that did not face the Platform. He did not wave goodbye. He was not eager to search for them. He sought seclusion, away from the masses and away from the pressing, reproachful eyes of his parents.

The Hogwarts Express, now filled to the brim with beaming expressions, clapping hands, and _aaaaanything from the trolly_ , huffed into action. It strode along the track, chugging happily, bellowing its horn once as a farewell to the patrons on the Platform. All of them waved and shouted their goodbyes, and Draco did not see them. He was not looking for them. He felt nothing for them. He sunk into his seat, adjusting his clean-pressed suit while he peered out of his window, occupying himself with the scenes the train was merging into. From cold cement walls to the city of London. He blinked with a blank expression, disinterested in what lay beyond the world he knew, just about as much as the world he was in.

A part of him was aware from the bustling students in the hallway just beyond his compartment, that he would not be alone in the duration of his trip. So, when the door _clicked_ and slid open, he took a moment of reprieve before he turned his gaze to the subject in the doorway. Almost filling the whole entrance because of his height, Blaise Zabini looked down at Draco with a rather blank, lazy expression. At first, the dark-skinned pureblood appeared almost apprehensive, lingering in the doorway as though stepping onto the threshold would only draw him into an awkward silence. Finally, not seeming to care, he ventured into the compartment and slid the door shut behind him. He careened almost too gracefully into the seat just across from Draco, sweeping his gaze over the pale, blonde aristocrat before shifting his sight to look through the window pane and dumbly admire the passing scenery.

At first, the silence that closed around them was one of severe, painful awkwardness. Post-battle blues crept up from their shoes and stung the stems of their brains like a tumor. Now that they were stagnant, the realization was dawning upon them that they were changed, yet very much the same. A colossal amount of pragmatism in assessment shifted betwixt the two boys. Finally, they locked stares again. They paused, unafraid. Blaise nodded to Draco. After a stint, Draco returned that nod. The silence became suddenly comfortable.

The door _clicked_ and slid open again, and the boys broke their level stares.

"Look at you sorry sods." The voice was all-too-familiar, tickling Draco's funny bone. Craning his jaw, his eyes traveled to the face of none other than Theodore Nott, who greeted Draco with his usual, foolish charm. One person Draco could count on never to change was Theodore Nott. Post-horror, he clung tightly to the shield of his charm and wit, igniting flames in the guts of all he ripped through. He was a bludger collision, Draco concluded. The lad let himself in on cue; Blaise's chortle of benign amusement egged him on. "Nothing like a year of hard studying at Hogwarts t'make up for almost destroying Hogwarts, aye?"

"Theo." Blaise began, catching the rowdy teen's attention. By now, Blaise's elbow was propped on the ledge of the window, stroking his chin absently. "Shut up." He added finally.

With little more than a charming grin, he flashed his humor at Draco. "Your boyfriend always like this?"

Draco offered nothing more than a very traditional Malfoy smirk in Theodore's direction. Nott, content with Draco's reaction, loudly clapped his hands together and slid the compartment door shut behind him, slipping into the seat beside Blaise, as Zabini appeared to be the most bothered by his presence. Blaise never moved an inch, providing nothing more than his traditional air of calm, sophisticated arrogance.

"Looks like the year's about to get _very_ interesting." Theodore's voice rang out, unable to indulge the silence. It was a flaw, he supposed, but it usually caused those around him to grin with delight when he actually attempted to have a shred of decency. By the looks exchanged, his cellmates refused to indulge talk about the war. So, he would move on to simpler things. "Hear McGonagall got some new staff members under her. Not to mention, we've got a new addition to our house."

"You don't mean the blood traitor." Blaise drawled, his lazy tone adopting a strange disappointment. "What was her name again?"

Draco shifted in his seat as a sense of familiarity cloaked the blood in his veins. "You mean Fawley?"

"Heard about her, have you?" Theo asked, motioning haphazardly to Draco, who shrugged in response, uninterested in the conversation already. Theo had opened his mouth to continue, but stopped when he noted two young women - familiar in arrogant strides - passing by the compartment. "Hold that thought." He said briskly, wrenching himself up from his seat to open the door.

Abruptly, Daphne Greengrass and Pansy Parkinson whipped their heads in Theo's direction. He greeted them both with a wry grin.

"Ladies. I wonder if we might borrow you a moment."

Peering through the window into the compartment, Pansy's face almost instantly lit up when her eyes rested on Draco. She nodded fervently and Daphne shrugged in resignation, following into the compartment after her friend. They took their seats, making the narrow space far more crowded than it ought to be. Draco shifted uncomfortably as Pansy took the seat nearest to him, unafraid of their legs brushing. He had not given her much thought as of late. He even stopped responding to her crooning letters. Still, she was an adamant young spirit; a fool for love. He held little interest, though the female contact had reminded him that the opportunities for intimacy had been terribly slim, and that he was still so painfully human.

"Hello, Draco." Pansy cooed with her usual high-pitched voice. She scrunched up her face. Cute in a puggish way, as usual. He nodded briefly to her.

"So. What did you call us in here for?" Daphne chimed, looking promptly to Theodore, who was now relaxing in his seat.

"Word on the street is: there's a new girl in our house." He replied. Pansy's spine went rigid.

"You mean that wretched Fawley girl?" She snapped. Theo nodded.

"The very same."

"Ugh. Her name's Lenora-"

"Did you see her disgusting outfit?" Daphne chimed in.

"And her piercings." Pansy stuck out her tongue in revulsion. "Could you imagine if they actually permitted such disgusting habits at Beauxbatons Academy? I thought they had much higher standards." She crinkled her puggish nose somewhat adorable again, though the angle in which Draco was glimpsing her through the corner of his eye made her appear a little more hideous than he would have liked.

"She attended Beauxbatons?" Theo replied, suddenly intrigued.

Pansy nodded glumly.

"She likely needed to remove them during her attendance." Daphne chimed in, waving off Pansy's overwrought sensibilities in one motion. "We saw what Madame Maxim expected of them when they attended Hogwarts during fourth year. Perhaps they were even more recent. That sort of change in appearance would not surprise me, given the state of shambles the war left her in."

"Who cares?" Pansy replied, shaking her head in revulsion. "She's hardly worthy of a pureblood title, let alone a Sacred Twenty-Eight, and she especially doesn't deserve the title of a Slytherin."

"She's not a part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Not anymore, from what I heard." Daphne interjected, drawing everyone's attention to her.

"Why not?" Theo asked, leaning in slightly like a curious child.

"None of you know the story?" Daphne asked, quirking a slender brow. When most of the compartment shook their heads, she sighed. "Well, according to gossip, Victor Fawley - Lenora's father - turned against the Dark Lord and fled the moment his wife was killed as a result of his disobedience. But that's not all. Apparently, Voldemort had sent a few henchmen to collect Fawley and bring him back." She paused a moment.

"And?" Pansy asked, raising her eyebrows to encourage her friend.

"Fawley escaped. When they found his hideout, he had the heads of the henchmen on pikes on his front lawn, but there was nobody inside the hideout. Fawley and his daughter just... disappeared." Daphne replied, shrugging helplessly. Draco mentally pictured a strange image of Lenora, swimming in a large sweater as she planted gardenias around the base of the posts that held the heads of her father's victims. He almost shuddered visibly at the notion, but she certainly did seem strange enough to enact such a vision. "Naturally, with his associations to his crimes - which he was acquitted for - and his former Death Eater status, Lenora wasn't allowed to continue her education at Beauxbatons, so she was transferred here. They were removed from the Sacred Twenty-Eight and are now considered blood traitors."

"Well, I certainly hope she doesn't think that getting into our house makes her one of us. I don't intend to associate with her." Pansy practically _harumphed_ and stuck her nose proudly in the air.

"That's another thing. From what people have been telling me, she hasn't said a word since her and her father resurfaced." The statement hung in the air like heavy metal, weighing down the conversation considerably. The boys refuted the option of saying anything on the topic. "Anyway." Daphne began, deciding to change the topic. "We were just on our way to Millicent's compartment. All our things are there." She brushed off the skirt of her dress and stood, aiming for the door. She gave Pansy a lingering look and the snooty, puggish girl stood as well.

"Lovely seeing you all." Pansy said finally, leaving her eyes on Draco for a longer moment before departing completely.

As they left, Theo relaxed suddenly in his seat, folding his arms over his chest. "Well. That was fun."

"Someday you're going to have to give me _your_ definition of fun, Theo." Blaise commented, bemused.

Draco had smirked, and recalled a brief moment of relief that welled in his body, spreading through each limb. He relaxed in the vacancy of Pansy's enamored stares. Released from any strange prerequisites, he slumped his shoulders and became almost instantly casual, toying with the handle of the drop-down arm rest attached to his seat.

However, this moment did not last long. Another figure passed by their compartment, catching his eye. It was the unruly curls that caught him off-guard. Hazel and thick, they spilled down, almost to her tailbone. She had faltered. The jerky motion summoned his scrutiny and instantly, he hated himself for being attracted to the motion. Through the pane, Hermione Granger had paused. Their gazes met. Her eyes appeared to blaze in confusion one moment, then shock, then seething hatred. She finally landed on an astonishing blankness that left her eyes wide. Ever the Gryffindor, her emotions were plastered on her face for the whole world to see. Draco caught a glimpse of her right fist clenching and unclenching, where her left hand was white-knuckled, gripping at her robes. The array of expressions shooting across her darkening eyes like stars astonished him. He suddenly found himself with an inability to breathe, finding himself stuck in an alternate dimension; one where he never left that night at Malfoy Manor. Forcing himself into his traditional afflictions, the corners of his mouth twisted. His eyes narrowed and he saw her reflecting in an evil gaze. Amazing, how he could make a smirk feel like iron, though it never met his eyes. She did not seem to notice this. He raised his hand to wave at her, condescending and cruel. Her gaze almost instantly tore from his and she shuffled back in the direction she came; as though this section of the train car was uncharted territory that she could not will herself to pass.

"Of course, the Mudblood would come back to finish off her education." Theo commented, causing Blaise to chortle. Draco's smirk solidified in spite of the feeling of the piercing in his lungs; like stepping into an Iron Maiden. Mudblood. She would never lose that memory. His aunt saw to that with a deranged sort of glee.

"Surprised to see her without her two goons." Blaise said finally.

"They could just be back in her compartment, Blaise. Don't lose hope." Theo retorted, chuckling high-spiritedly.

"Saint Potter." Draco scoffed finally. "I heard he was breaking into the Ministry. Tough talk about becoming an Auror."

"Really." Theo rubbed his chin with his index finger, mildly intrigued. "Well, surely the Weasley blood traitor is with her."

"I doubt it." Blaise commented. "You really think that dung-head would continue his education when he was barely hanging on by a thread before? They're all heroes now. They can do whatever they want."

"Merlin." Theo expressed in a long sigh. "The end of an era. The Trio has finally split up."

"Yeah, now the Mudblood can suffer in silence." Blaise quipped, smirking a little wider.

"I wouldn't bet on it, Blaise." Draco retorted, still with his trademark Malfoy arrogance. He felt the confidence climbing as the conversation went on. Granger's appearance was nothing more than a minor crack in the steel wall he had fashioned long ago. "Insufferable know-it-alls tend to jabber."

The Hogwarts Express began to slow, alerting the students to the impending doom of a new school year. The boys in that compartment exchanged looks. The contraption chugged to a halt, slowly but surely. The students began gathering their things and piling out, stretching their legs from the cramped quarters and chattering amongst themselves as they searched for the boats and carriages to pull them to Hogwarts grounds.

"Ready?" Theo asked them. Blaise shrugged nonchalantly. Draco only scoffed, pushing himself up from his seat.

"Always."


	3. Hiraeth

A/N: We're off to an alright start. Still gaining my bearings a little. Feedback is always appreciated. Enjoy.

* * *

 _ **HIRAETH**_

The Great Hall was alive, boiling over with laughter. Seas of smiles, hugs, and exclamations of friendship poured through, rumbling in the chest of every student. Alive with vigor and shameless in pretense. Hermione watched them all croon into one another, each individual acting as though the stones of these walls had never before crumbled at the hands of terrible darkness. The floors were clean; refurbished. Recycled. The tabletops glimmered with new finishings, oak and sturdy. Her palms briefly flattened over the smooth surface of Gryffindor table, blocking out the reflection of her face, which was unrecognizable without two heads - red and black - on either side of her. All in all, losing herself in the abrupt realization that she was painfully isolated, even in the respect of her own house, was a little unsettling. A score of gold and crimson barricading her in and Hermione felt as though she were wearing black. A silent _noir_ film in a sea of futuristic developments.

There was a displacement here that Hermione Granger could not shake. A sense of a lack of self without the _other_. It all caused a strange mixture of relief and anxiety; a longing to return to darker times, when they were closest. This yearning was for a time and a place that, perhaps, never existed, or was never meant to exist.

Either way, she was lost, isolated, and thoroughly, irrevocably alone.

She had glanced up briefly, stowing away dark thoughts, and her eyes scoured the ocean of faces for a source of familiarity. They rested briefly on a head of white blonde hair, now slung in long, wild curls over a Ravenclaw shoulder. Luna. Hermione's heart warmed ever so slightly upon seeing the face, and she had almost waved. Her hand had raised and her fingers curled slightly, but she realized that Luna Lovegood, ever the hopeless wanderer, had occupied herself with watching the enchanted ceiling. Thinning her lips, embarrassed, Hermione reverted back into herself, glancing down at her half-empty plate. She was not hungry anymore.

"Weird being back, yeah?" Ginny's voice was like a holy hymn, derived from Hellfire. Hermione swiftly swiveled her head, catching the young Weasley's glimmering eyes. She had noticed Ginny earlier, but was afraid to occupy her when she was in the middle of a conversation with Dean Thomas. Still, the sudden attention had caught Hermione off guard, and all she could do in response was nod briefly with a small smile. "How are you feeling?"

"Alright." Hermione replied, shrugging haphazardly. "It's strange, you know... being without Harry and Ron."

The admittance tugged a small, slow nod from Ginny. She agreed, though perhaps not as fervently as Hermione had hoped. The air felt thick, until Ginny managed - just barely - to fill the gap.

"It'll be alright, though. At least you won't have to worry about doing anyone's work except your own." She joked, urging a whisper of a laugh from Hermione's lips.

"Suppose you're right." She replied, laughing emptily.

Silence. It seemed they had run out of things to talk about very quickly. It closed around them like a cancer, causing the muggle-born witch to shift awkwardly in her seat. For a moment, her mind reeled, striking through footnotes of possible conversation. _How's it with you and Harry? Have you heard from him? How is George doing? What classes are you taking? Will you be attending N.E.W.T. year as well? How was your train ride?_

Just when Hermione had decided on a more appropriate question to ask, she had turned back to Ginny, only to find the redhead once again occupied in a minor argument about the Chudley Cannons with Seamus. Granger's shoulders slumped in defeat. She stared back down at her half-empty plate of food. To alleviate the awkwardness she felt, she picked at her plate to occupy her mind, half-wishing that she had brought a book to read. At least then, she could appear more engrossed in something other than attempting to maintain what few friendships she had. She felt a longing in her heart for a connection to curl around her; to help her back into place. This separation was beginning to make her achy and anxious.

After all, what could she possibly be without the two things that completed her?

 _One third of a whole heart, that's what._

Frowning, Hermione turned her chin up the moment she heard glasses being lightly tapped by silverwear. In the spot where Dumbledore once stood, Minerva McGonagall was looking down upon the noisy students with pursed lips, clearing her throat. Behind her, an indifferent staff followed her example, beckoning the attention of the pupils. When the Great Hall came to a hush, Minerva allowed the silence to linger only for a moment. Scarcely a breath taken. She cleared her throat.

"I would like to begin this year by welcoming all students to this: the beginning of a new year at Hogwarts. For some of you, I suppose it is much like returning to an old friend. For those new to these towering walls, you are likely counting your blessings, and will continue to do so, as the events of the Second War fade into this school's past." There were gentle murmurs peppering through the crowd at the mention of the war. McGonagall's hands raised up, beckoning everyone's attention once more. "I, as the Headmistress of this school, will not begin this year by feigning ignorance. What you all see before you - some of you are well aware - are the fixed pieces of an event most tragic. However, it is my hope that in the memories of this dark chapter in our history, we may honor the memories of the students and faculty who fought for the sake of this school by finishing what we started, and honoring the magic that runs in the veins of every student in this room." She paused briefly, allowing the notion to sink into the ears and minds of every student listening. "It was the late Albus Dumbledore - this school's former Headmaster - who looked upon every face here and wished for nothing more than for them to broaden their minds with as much knowledge as possible, and go into the world of magic as strong, independent individuals with both knowledge of magic, and knowledge of themselves."

The mention of Dumbledore caused Hermione's instincts to kick in. Briefly, her wary eyes flashed towards the Slytherin table, where she caught a glimpse of the side profile of Draco. Her expression was thoroughly blank. It had taken her a moment to notice that he was actually spotting her from the corner of his steel eyes. Once the realization struck her, she instantly turned her attention back to the Headmistress behind the enchanted podium. In this action, though her eyes remained willfully glued to McGonagall's pursed lips, she could feel her left cheek smoldering, which told her that she was the one being watched this time. Her spine went rigid and she held the stiffness so long that her shoulders were beginning to ache.

The sensation passed soon enough. She felt a little sick.

"As such, I want to announce the beginning of this year in name of Professor Albus Dumbledore, and hope that his name be honored by the successes that each and every one of you are bound to achieve."

Slowly, the staff and students began clapping in celebration of the statement. Hermione could have sworn that she had seen McGonagall's lip twitch, pleased with herself for moving her audience. The woman always did have a way with words.

"In light of that, this year will be perpetuating two distinct messages: unity and knowledge. The events of the war, though triumphed by good, left a large gap in all of us, and left souls divided. It is time to reunite, set aside our differences, and seek a future of promise and harmony. Now. Due to overseeing the renovations and rebuilding of this school, I regret to say that the following announcement is quite late." Silence hung dead in the air. Some students leaned in, trying to hear better. McGonagall unrolled a piece of parchment that she had been clutching in her hand, reading from it. "The following names have been chosen as representatives for this school year, and will be claiming the duties of Hogwarts' Head Boy and Head Girl."

Another light wave of murmurs. McGonagall's voice drowned them out.

"From Gryffindor: Hermione Granger."

A round of applause erupted from the table of lions. Ginny squeezed Hermione's shoulder, murmuring avid and fiery congratulations. The muggle-born witch beamed proudly, though her cheeks turned a hefty shade of pink from the attention turned on her. Hermione reached for her goblet of pumpkin juice, tilting it to her lips in order to feebly shield her embarrassment. The liquid poured into her mouth and she felt a little more refreshed, but she had taken too much.

"From Slytherin house: Draco Malfoy."

She sputtered. She choked. Some of the juice came out through her nose. While the Slytherins clapped and cheered, Hermione was drowning. Ginny clapped her on the back to help her along through the coughing fit. Hermione brought her napkin to her face, trying her best to hide herself from the onslaught of strange looks. She felt her cheeks burning again and she refused to look up, knowing that sensation all too well. He was looking at her. Likely smirking that traditional Malfoy smirk at her obvious misery.

The cheers died down and Hermione felt weak, having spent the last few minutes coughing. McGonagall cleared her throat and Hermione kept the napkin against her lips, suddenly wishing that she could be invisible.

"The announced Heads will be meeting with me tomorrow morning, before their classes, so that they may be assigned their proper duties." The muggle-born gulped, chanced a rather frightful look over to the Slytherin table, and instantly regretted it. Draco Malfoy was looking smug, eyeing her with such poisonous pride that Hermione found herself drawing a complete blank on how to react. A mixture of blank shock and hatred fluttered across her features. "The following names are to be the Prefects of each respective house."

She forced her attention back on McGonagall, fully aware that slaughtering the Head Boy on the first day of school was likely grounds for expulsion. However, considering McGonagall's stance on Slytherins, perhaps she would just get detention.

... No. Not worth the risk.

"From Gryffindor house: Ginevra Weasley and Dean Thomas. From Hufflepuff: Susan Bones and Ernie Macmillan. From Ravenclaw: Roger Davies and Luna Lovegood. Finally, from Slytherin: Daphne Greengrass and Blaise Zabini."

Whispers of congratulations and well-wishes sprouted from the mouths of every house. The appointed Prefects appeared pleased, though the only person out of place was Luna, who kept her head tilted towards the enchanted ceiling, smiling airily to herself. Clearly, the title was not as interesting as the stars shooting across the night sky. Perhaps she saw herself riding them as they zipped across the black abyss. Hermione, on the other hand, was trying her very best to imagine Luna in an authoritative position. It almost made her laugh. Luna was a bright witch. Spells often came to her as simply as breathing came to any living creature. However, she had just about as much authoritativeness as a bunny rabbit. Hermione vaguely smiled at the thought, hoping that the whimsical witch would surprise her somehow. She always managed to before.

"Now that the Heads and Prefects have officially been announced, I now declare the school year begun. Prefects, please lead the first years of your house to their dormitories. Classes will begin tomorrow." With that, Minerva vacated the podium. The owl statue supporting it lowered its wings back to its side, shaking its head from the stiffness.

One by one, the tables filed out. The escalating excitement of the first years was quieted by the Prefects leading them, though in the crowd, Luna Lovegood only smiled. Hermione fidgeted, looking as though she was marching to her doom.

"Miss Granger! Miss Granger!" The ever familiar shrill of McGonagall's voice caused Hermione to whip around almost instantly as she was exiting the Great Hall. She had been straying behind the Gryffindor crowd, making the excuse that she was simply overseeing procedure. The sense of relief she gained from her attention being called was indescribable. She paid that knowledge no heed, freezing the moment she saw Draco Malfoy standing beside the Headmistress. Straightening her shoulders, Hermione made her way towards the pair, reminding herself with disappointment that she might as well get accustomed to the sight of him. His face would become a recurring nightmare.

"Yes, Professor?" Hermione announced, encouraging the Headmistress to be as brief as possible so she could resume her sulking.

"The Heads introductory meeting will be held tomorrow morning _promptly_ at 7:30, in the Headmaster's Office. The password to enter will be _dragon tartar_." McGonagall observed the both of them, almost anticipating answers. Malfoy only nodded curtly. Granger only murmured a small "yes, Professor" that was practically inaudible. "Right, then. Off to bed, both of you." She ushered them away, and Hermione made no effort to look back at the blonde boy as he departed. Both appeared all too eager to generate space between them.

Hermione had planned on catching up with Ginny during the walk, but she found herself the odd man out. Dean and the Weasley girl were still arguing about Quidditch and, with Hermione's distaste for the barbaric sport, she was forced to hang back, hovering around the first years. Nobody spoke to her, save Neville, who gave her a passing hello before returning to a conversation he was having with Seamus. Everybody, apart from the lone muggle-born, was back and chatting with their respective cliques. She walked awkwardly through the sea of gold-trimmed smiles, never before feeling so out of place.

For the briefest of moments, she had even lingered in the common room, slowly weaving her gaze around the warmth of the area. People talked amongst themselves, recalling past experiences, catching up, and laughing at rather silly or offensive jokes. Hermione dismissed herself, peeling up to the girl's chambers. She tried not to cry while she delved into her favorite book - _Hogwarts, A History_ \- and soon thereafter, fell asleep with its weight on her chest.

* * *

The sounds of the giant squid, which seemed to favor the Slytherin corner of the Black Lake the night before, had lulled Draco into an early resting place, put-off by memories, old and new. He was in a blind stupor as he forced himself to sit up and rub the sleep from his eyes. Everyone else was still wrapped up in the embraces of their subconscious; unaccustomed to the lack of sunlight through the window panes. However, due to a very strange dream involving ice cream and carving a Firebolt 2.0 with his mother from an elder tree, Draco found himself waking up groggy, exhausted, and ultimately befuddled.

There was no sun beaming brightly upon his face this time, not like at home, where the rays would clash against the dark despair of his bedroom. There was only the rush of the occasional creature zipping by the windows viewing the depths of the Black Lake. When he awoke, he did so to cold, dark rooms, no matter where he went. Bleak future, indeed.

Draco could only assume that the great Slytherins who tumbled into lives of pure evil only did so because of the aesthetics provided to them. Within, the boys dormitory was lit up by green, glowing orbs. These orbs did not brighten until it was time to wake up for classes. Even then, everybody needed to adjust their eyes when they were hit with the brightness of the castle upon slithering out from the cove. The Slytherin dormitories, albeit elegant, had a cold pallor and were, ultimately, testaments to the recesses of a depth most abysmal.

Adjustment periods.

People wondered why Slytherins were always so pale. This was probably the most qualifying factor. He suddenly found the contrast very symbolic. Gryffindors were tucked snugly away in the tallest tower, facing the sunrise. Put on pedestals. Shimmering glory. Slytherins, on the other hand, were bound to coil up to one another in the shadows of the Black Lake, never to touch the rays; never to find heavenly retribution. Buried in the depths of the dungeons like some shameful secret.

Damned from the start. The lot of them.

He had a whole new appreciation for dramatic irony.

Almost blindly, Draco grabbed his uniform from the chair next to his bed, slipped past the four-posters, some with fine silk, emerald curtains drawn, and made his way towards the communal showers. He scratched the top of his head, already able to tell that his hair was a matted mess. He was a mackerel when he slept, and his dreams attributed very little in ways of physical rest. He tossed about the mattress, more often than not, but always found himself on the right side of the bed, as though someone occupied the left against his knowledge and left before he awoke.

He cut into the showers with a rather full, weighted head. Lead in his feet. He would feel better once he was clean.

Of course, this notion only lasted so long. Halfway through his shower, he recalled the meeting he was supposed to have with Professor McGonagall. That roused a rumbling growl from his chest in frustration. Working alongside a mudblood was going to be hell enough, but to constantly answer to the head of Gryffindor seemed a mite more horrendous. By the time he had stepped out of the shower, he was wearing his usual Malfoy grimace, along with his school uniform, digging fists into the pockets of his robes while he sauntered towards the exit of the Slytherin dungeons.

He was halfway through the common room when he froze mid-step. There was a rustle that caught his keen hearing. Abruptly, and with a rather frightened expression, he whipped around to face the subject causing such disturbances in the silence of his walk. He almost instantly regretted his paranoia when his steel eyes fell upon the culprit. A head of raven hair, pale white skin, and very large, soul-sucking eyes was peering over the lip of one of the common room couches, pointed directly at him.

Fawley.

"What are _you_ doing out here?" He snapped, practically sneering at her. Lenora Fawley remained still for just a moment, then eventually lifted her head. Her hair was disheveled, there were bags under her eyes, making her look gaunt like a ghost, and her motions were languid. Draco's eyes narrowed, slicing through the air at her. She appeared unfazed, watching him as he rounded the space between them for closer observation. Her lower half was tucked under her dormitory blanket. She was sitting cross-legged, but Draco knew these signs, and his lip curled in disgust at the prospect. "Did you sleep out here?"

No response. Unnerving. Her large eyes sized him up, from shoes to nose. In the end, she sat perfectly still with her shoulders slumped, swimming in a large black sweater, while looking directly through him. Draco practically shuddered visibly from the effect, abruptly clenching his jaw and turning hard on his heel. She looked at him like _he_ was the phantom. He vacated the dungeons much quicker than anticipated, almost jogging up the steps in order to put as much distance as possible between himself and that shroud of ominous intentions.

His legs were burning by the time he had reached the Headmaster's - _Headmistress'_ office. Hauling in a deep breath through his nostrils to void the pain of familiarity, his lip curled, almost in a sneer as he managed "dragon tartar" through gritted teeth. The gargoyle guarding the spiral staircase began to shift with a treacherous brand of welcome. Draco's face was contorted in a permanent scowl by the time he had reached the top of the stairs, wiping his hands off on his robes as though the walls themselves were infested with germs. It _was_ infested. He was infested. Everything in this room was pain and nothing made sense anymore. Wandering any fraction of these halls brought him little to no joy. Horrid memories crept between the cracks, even through the repaired bricks of the Great Hall.

No part of this godforsaken castle had anything nostalgic to offer him that could turn his frown upside down.

"Oh, there you are, Mister Malfoy." Professor McGonagall quipped, now seated behind _his_ desk. Everything had changed in this place. It was much neater, less cluttered. Dumbledore had always been a man of sentiment. The portraits of the former headmasters were still hung up all over the walls. Dumbledore's portrait was the most prominent. Draco was pleased to find him sleeping in his chair, and not staring at him or waving 'hello'. Still, the blonde boy shifted and clenched his jaw to the point where he was certain his teeth would shatter. He hated it in here.

Almost instantly, a face had whipped around the large back of one of the two chairs seated before McGonagall's desk. Deep maroon with gold trims. Of course. Hermione Granger was glaring at him. He felt instantly like a reprimanded child, but in defiance, he raised his chin, sneering down at her. Her glower was enough to satisfy him. He took a seat in the vacant maroon chair.

"Well." McGonagall began, sitting rigid in her seat. Prim and proper. Proud as a lioness. "Now that both of you are here, we can begin this meeting. Since you are both assigned as Head Boy and Head Girl, you will be representatives of this school, which means you will be assigned certain duties. You will manage and generate schedules for Prefect patrols, as well as instructing Prefects during school events, such as Quidditch games. Furthermore, you will be expected to aid the faculty in case of any emergency." There was a brief pause. "Am I to assume that everything is understood so far?"

"Yes, Professor." Hermione replied. Draco said nothing, merely nodding once. He looked briefly around the room and his scowl deepened.

McGonagall adjusted her glasses. "That is not all I've called you both into this office for." She began, leaning forward. Her hands clasped together upon the surface of the large desk. "Your parts in the war were prominent, to say the least. As you have both survived and are attending this school, you will both be the finest example of unity that I can procure." Another pause. Draco shifted uncomfortably in his seat, anxious to leave. "Now, I understand that both of you have had your differences. However, I will not tolerate _intolerance_ in my school, _from either of you_." She placed particular emphasis on that last part, narrowing her gaze and shifting it knowingly between both parties.

"To be fair, Professor..." Draco began, his tone practically a hiss of venomous disdain. "This isn't exactly a house rivalry-"

"Oh, I know what this is to _you_ , Mister Malfoy, and once more, I'll not stand for it. As long as you are a student here, you _will_ abide the rules of this school." McGonagall snapped, her tone shrill. Draco clamped his mouth shut once more. "Furthermore, this is exactly why I chose the both of you for these positions. Not only were your grades excellent, but you will both portray the perfect symbolism for the school's intention of putting the war in the past, where it belongs."

"I mean no offense, Professor." Hermione interjected, shifting almost uncomfortably in her seat when she felt Draco's eyes on her. "But Malfoy's right. What sort of unity would we be portraying if we can hardly sit in the same room without immediately wanting to leave?"

"Well, Miss Granger, if the representative from Gryffindor cannot abide a simple act of civility, then perhaps you ought to step down from your position." Hermione went instantly silent. Draco's steel gaze shifted between the two women. He cleared his throat. McGonagall continued. "Now, please come to my office after dinner and I will escort you to your new dormitory."

 _Of course_.

Forgetfulness was a horrid disease.

Draco's stomach churned and he was positive that he could hear the bones in Granger's hands crackling from how hard she was clenching her fists.

Head Boys and Girls shared dormitories. Hogwarts, A History pointed that out countless times. It was considered unseemly for clearly outstanding students to be housed alongside their underlings, solely because there was a concern that the Heads would not get the respect they required in the field. To be announced as a Head meant taking on a superior position. Naturally, they would be given superior living quarters to top it off.

"Now, both of you run along to your classes. I'll see you after supper." McGonagall said, waving the two of them off with a swish of her hand.

"Thank you, Professor." Hermione murmured as she pushed herself up.

She was all too eager to abandon post and run for the hills. Still, her academic addictions swallowed her whole and shot her directly into a panic attack whenever she even considered going against the system. She bit her tongue and thanked the stars that Draco was the first to leave. She took her time, generating distance between herself and him, even though they were headed to the exact same class.

Upon reaching their destination, Hermione had allowed Draco to be the first to enter the potions classroom, arriving very shortly after. Slughorn greeted them both in passing. Hermione took the seat next to Neville and Draco buckled into the vacancy beside Pansy.


	4. War Is Over

_**WAR IS OVER (IF YOU WANT IT)**_

There are extraordinary women. Magical women. They possess a sublime mysticism, which swells deep in their breast; supernatural spectres of the most whimsical little nymphs. Even disheveled, every girl aspiring to be like these goddesses would see them as perfect and unnaturally beautiful. They were the supermodels; the glories. They were the utter perfection of nature that every girl longed to encompass, and every older woman wished they could have been.

Hermione was _not_ extraordinary. Not in _that_ way.

She coiled her fingers over the tender binding of yet another book, unsurprisingly stressed with an angry crease in her brow. She reserved no awe-inspiring specialty, save the permanent concentration etched into her face as she furiously scribbled down illegible notes and symbols, like she were chasing ghosts and copying their remnants onto parchment before they could disappear from the page she was observing. All around her, the world turned, people mingled and laughed and lived, and she was none the wiser to any of it.

Hermione Granger was the girl you tried to see around in order to spot the supermodel behind her with the hiked up skirt. Her hair, though a little more tamed than first year, was still a wild mass of thick curls that she didn't bother trying to brush through anymore. They coiled over one another and spiraled down; the longest pieces just barely reached her tailbone. She did not have the patience to sit through another hair stylist trying to cut it. Depending on the weather, it would get unbearably frizzy in certain places, making her body appear far smaller than her head. Her body was nothing special. Thin. Toned, but thin. Her breasts were humble, perhaps palm-sized, and her curves left a lot to be desired in a few ways. Her waist and hips were, for the most part, straight lines, with only the slightest hints of curves. Overall, made of jagged edges. Her eyebrows were dark and appeared bushier than usual, because her hair was a little lighter in tone. Her lips were a little thin, though her bottom lip got fuller when it was irritated by her teeth. Her eyes were dark and often narrowed to slits in focus. However, in spite of this, the chestnuts glimmered with curiosity, and were most lively when attached to the pages of a book. Her shoulders were often hunched; her fingers casually stained with ink. She often wore her school uniform under her robes, even in times when casual dress was acceptable. After the war, the uniform was more frumpy and big, accentuating no slice of effeminate nature.

The girls in the Great Hall had senses of style, even with their robes. More often than not, they hiked their skirts up in order to show a little more leg. They removed their robes and sweater vests at lunchtime and were unafraid to exploit their nature as proud young ladies. People like Hermione Granger kept themselves tucked deep in the sea of black fabric and the accentuating colors of their houses. Any option of sexual objectification was not even considered by Hermione. In fact, if consulted, she would deem it repulsive and vile. After all, what was the point of flaunting a body when it was the heart that mattered?

 _Keep up with that talk and you're gonna wind up an old maid, Hermione._

Ron said that once. He was quick to receive a firm swat upside the back of his head. He smarted, and spent the next week suffering the silent treatment by Hermione.

Of course, this was prior to the kiss they shared in the Chamber of Secrets. Just a kiss, so long ago. Occasionally, it bled into her mind and made her feel warm, safe, and loved. The only pesky trouble was what followed _after_ the memory that made her dreamy. It was recalling the times they kissed afterwards, where the fire was less and the crimson was just awkward. Hermione found herself clamoring for flames, which were now closer to dying embers. It made her stomach sink. Apart from the hug he gave her in their surreal goodbye, their contact had been scarce. By the time Hermione had returned from Australia with her parents, tanned and glimmering with happiness, she had only roomed at the Burrow for a week before Ron and Harry had accompanied her to the Platform. In that time, Ron was fairly distant, hesitant to even hold her hand, though she practically pined for him.

Now, she was burning; perishing in the depths of the voices in the Great Hall while she distracted her mind in a Charms class textbook. Nobody bothered her, which pleased her greatly, since she already knew that well over half of her evening would be spent settling into her new dormitory and trying her hardest not to mumble an Unforgivable while staring down that blonde, pointy-faced git. She could already feel the migraine slipping into the cracks of her brain, making her pinch the bridge of her nose and wish that Harry could tell her that it was all going to be okay. Harry was always supportive. Ron always thought her self-deprecation was ridiculous; that someone so smart couldn't possibly doubt themselves. But she doubted. Oh, she doubted.

"Isn't that Harry's owl? Hedwig?" Ginny piped up as she walked over to Hermione, slipping onto the empty space beside her at Gryffindor table. The muggle-born witch turned her head up instantly from her work to see the snowy owl sweeping just under the enchanted ceiling. It flew lower as it reached Hermione's position, dropping three letters onto the table before it perched just before them. Ginny reached for the one addressed to her by Harry. The other two were for Hermione, from both Harry and Ron. She slung thin fingers around them instantly, jerking them to her chest.

Hermione tore into Ron's letter first, beaming over at Ginny while she unraveled the mysteries.

" _Hermione,_

 _Things are going alright at the Ministry. Harry thinks he can pull some strings and get me into an auror's position. Dad says he can give me recommendations, too. I should be joining Harry shortly._

 _Hope everything was alright your first day._

 _\- Ron"_

Frowning slightly, Hermione folded the letter almost pristinely, sliding it back into its envelope. Ron had never been a boy who was great with expressing his emotions, which normally left Hermione wanton. Even after kissing her with abnormal ferocity, he could not bring himself to write warmer words. It made her heart sink.

She opened Harry's letter with more grace and tentativeness, sighing and forcing strength into her veins.

 _"Hey, Hermione._

 _Work at the Ministry is going well. I've just begun the training program, which is loads of fun. We have quite a bit of literature to study as well, which I thought you might like. All about the laws of the Ministry and how to apply them to the field we're in. I've made a point to set aside copies of the required texts, so be sure to act surprised when you get them for your birthday._

 _I hope school is going well. Part of me wishes I'd gone with you back to Hogwarts. I miss it there. How's Hagrid doing? Give him my best, will you?_

 _I miss you, Hermione. Ron misses you too. We can't wait to see you over Christmas break._

 _Give Peeves hell for me, yeah?_

 _\- Harry"_

Hermione was astonished to find her Chosen friend to be far more intricate in his letter. After slipping it back into its envelop, she glanced between both senders briefly, hating how tightly her stomach was clenched. She could feel Ginny's eyes on her, sinking into her skull without pretense.

"Something wrong, Hermione?" She asked. Hermione glanced briefly over to the youngest Weasley and shook her head.

"I just miss them, that's all." Hermione let out a small sigh, her shoulders slumping in defeat. "My first day back, and already, I don't know how I'm going to do this without them."

She felt Ginny's hand close over her shoulder, but she could not handle being touched when her state was already miserable enough. It made her flinch away and grab her letters and books, scrunching them into her chest as she hurriedly lifted herself from her seat. She stepped over the large bench at Gryffindor table and cast an apologetic look to Ginny.

"I'm sorry, I have to go." She muttered, swiftly disappearing from the Great Hall with tears swelling in her eyes.

She spent some time thereafter in the deep recesses of the library, utilizing the remains of her lunch to scribble down responses to her friends. There was only so much time in the lunch hour and she wanted to reach out to her friends as soon as possible. Supper was going to be bad enough, dreading the countdown to the shared dormitory with Malfoy by the excruciating millisecond. The least she could do was lift her spirits by jotting down a few sentiments to her comrades.

 _"Harry,_

 _It was great to hear from you so soon. Seeing Hedwig really brightened up my day. Already, the year is starting out rough, but I'll tell you all about how it turns out during the holidays. I can't wait to see the books! I already have something picked out for both you and Ronald._

 _I'll be sure to give Hagrid your wishes, too. But don't count on Peeves. He'll always be a nuisance._

 _Hope to hear from you again soon! Good luck with your training!_

 _\- Hermione"_

She smiled down at the words before blowing softly on the parchment to quicken the drying of the ink, eventually folding the parchment gingerly and slipping it into an envelope given to her by Madam Pince. She then dipped her quill into her ink and began Ron's letter.

" _Ronald,_

 _I'm so happy to hear about the Ministry. I hope everything goes well._

 _My first day wasn't exactly pleasant, but I'm sure it will pick up soon enough._

 _I hope to hear from you again soon. I do miss you quite a bit._

 _\- Hermione._ "

She stared down listlessly at her letter, suddenly feeling the weight of its shortness. Granted, Ronald had never been an innate conversationalist, but she never realized that connecting with him would be this difficult. Ignoring the strangeness she felt in the last few words on the parchment, she folded it neatly and slipped the letter into its respective envelope. _These things take time_ , her mother would say, _practice makes perfect_. Her mother was right. This sort of distance would not drive a wedge between them. Perhaps it would make hearts fonder, as the common muggle expression went.

 **Journeys** **end in lovers meeting**. She thought to herself, recalling the quote from a personal favorite, _The Haunting of Hill House_. A bit too romanticized, perhaps, but somehow, she felt it fitting.

She gathered her things, thanked Madam Pince for the stationary, and proceeded to make her way from the library towards the owlery to send her letters. It was certainly a stretch. She was completely out of breath by the time she found herself coming up on the western tower. The weight of her bag was so great on her shoulders that it was making her spine ache and scream for the pressure to be relieved. She glanced down in the midst of a brisk pace, beginning to adjust the strap.

This was all forgotten when she found her shoulder colliding with another, which felt almost skeletal. Instantly, Hermione let out a slew of "sorry" and "so sorry", co-mingling the phrases with one another as she bent low to begin scooping up the books and papers that spilled out of her bag. She had not even glanced up through her long, wild curls to see who the culprit was, but she had assumed they left while she scrambled to regather her things.

It was when she turned a sharp eye to the two letters for Harry and Ron that she found them collected, held out to her by an uncanny, pale hand. Following the length of the limb, she found herself face-to-face with an unfamiliar visage.

"Oh..." Hermione began, suddenly at a loss for words. There was a girl before her, with long raven hair, large, piercing eyes, and black-painted lips. Her skin tone was pale, even against the white collar of her uniform. She looked gaunt; unhealthy. She donned Slytherin colors, yet did not speak a single syllable. "Th-thank you." She managed, reaching for the letters. In the true nature of a Slytherin, she half-expected the girl to rip the letters or yank them back from her, but she yielded them to Hermione with an ominous grace. Her fingers were practically skeletal.

When she stood, the girl stood with her; mirroring her. It almost appeared as though the stranger was copying her mannerisms, unsure of how to act with any sort of custom. Hermione took a moment of silence, addressing the strangeness of the presence.

"You must be new here." The muggle-born managed finally, outstretching a free hand to the girl. "I'm Hermione Granger."

Another silence closed around them. The girl's large eyes traveled slowly down to the hand reaching for her own and Hermione almost sucked in a breath of nervousness, briefly forgetting that oxygen was a human requirement for survival. Soon enough, the girl had raised her own thin, bony hand, clasping Hermione's gently; weakly.

"Nora." Was all the girl said. Her voice was small; fragile. Hermione could have sworn that this girl was in the wrong house, but knew better than to make presumptions. Slytherins were not usually soft-spoken. They slung insults like it was their job, cheated through almost everything, and threw completely immature fits when they never got their way. This girl just seemed... _broken_.

"Pleasure." Hermione said, still sizing the girl up. Nora looked like she was gradually disappearing in her robes. A small breeze swung past them and Hermione almost feared that the Slytherin would not stay rooted to the ground. "Well... I better get these letters sent out." Nora stared longer than Hermione's comfort level would allow. Her eyes seemed suddenly dark. "Thank you for your help."

Abruptly, she turned away from Nora, ascending the staircase more swiftly than she intended.

Nora did not follow.

* * *

"Hermione!" Airy happiness swarmed Granger's eardrums as she entered the Great Hall for supper. Her spirits had lifted considerably throughout the day, mostly because she found her classes to be quite enjoyable. Now, she was staring down the beaming face of Luna Lovegood, who must have migrated to the Gryffindor table of her own accord when the feast began. "Curious to find you coming to dinner so late."

"I was in the library. I needed to prepare the Prefect schedules." Hermione replied, sliding into the seat next to Luna, who beamed proudly when she found the Gryffindor choosing her as an eating companion. Said Gryffindor could have used such affections as these the night before, when she felt so homesick that she almost vomited.

"You have the schedules? Let's see, then." Ginny interjected, stretching out a hand to obtain the schedules.

Hermione playfully swatted Ginny's hand away. "Not yet. I need to run them by Malfoy and McGonagall before I post them up. I just thought it best to be prepared."

"Ugh, Malfoy." Ginny muttered, shaking her head. "Honestly, I don't know how you're going to work alongside him. He's a prat."

"I see why the Headmistress is doing it, though." Luna replied. Hermione and Ginny went silent, addressing Luna warily. "She mentioned _unity_. Naturally, she's going to take the figureheads of polar opposites to solidify the concept. Draco is a well-known Pureblood and the son of a Death Eater, and Hermione is the Muggle-born hero who saved this school. A proverbial yin and yang, if you will."

"That's exactly what Professor McGonagall told me this morning." Granger frowned, suddenly hating the truth.

"He's still a prat." Ginny responded, still with a hard head.

"What's worse is that I'll actually have to live with him." Hermione replied, beginning to fill her plate with food. Ginny and Luna both turned their heads to Hermione simultaneously, expecting answers. "It's been a tradition for some time. You know, Ginny, Percy was Head Boy as well. He shared a dormitory with the Head Girl."

"Oh, that makes it _worse_!" Ginny exclaimed, covering her hand with her mouth.

"I don't think it will be so bad." Luna interjected. "Draco is very focused on image, and fickle with his associations. I don't see him taking up too much of your time." There was a pause in Luna's whimsical, airy tone. "Besides, Hermione, perhaps you could do with a change in scenery."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Hermione scoffed out, taking a bite of her food.

Luna shrugged. "Just that Draco isn't the only one who holds prejudices." Another pause. "He was raised in darkness. I think some light would do him good. The same could be said for you. After all, light cannot exist without there first being a darkness to need it, and I think he needs it more than anybody."

Hermione and Ginny exchanged looks. The silence breeded a comical tension. "You're so full of it, Luna." Ginny managed, causing Hermione to laugh softly. "I swear to you: once a prat, always a prat."

Luna laughed with them as well, but she laughed like she _knew_ , which unnerved Hermione greatly.

* * *

Draco was having no luck. He was hovering over his plate, just finishing his meal, when he felt Theodore's stare burning into the side of his skull. To his left, Goyle sat, now on his third helping. To his right, Pansy, who had made herself almost explicitly comfortable. Theodore sat beside Blaise across the table from Malfoy, and the two appeared to be exchanging whispers while looking directly at Draco, who was gradually becoming all the more annoyed by the minute. Each second under their scrutiny was causing bile to boil in his stomach, because he _knew_ what they were whispering about.

"Blaise. Theo." Draco grit through his teeth as he pushed away his plate. "Care to share with the class?"

"Why would we do that when it's such a blast watching your face get all red?" Theodore countered, smirking boldly. Blaise did little more than snicker; cruelly amused. "Besides, aren't _you_ supposed to be the one sharing the big news?"

"What big news?" Draco spat back, venom in his tone providing a warning that neither Nott nor Zabini heeded.

"Please, Draco." Blaise drawled in his lazy tone. "Rooming with a mudblood isn't big news?"

"What?" Pansy interrupted, leaning in slightly. "What on earth are you talking about?"

"Am I one of the only people who researched the school I was attending?" Blaise asked, shaking his head. "Head Boys and Girls room together. It's tradition. Crack a book sometime, Parkinson."

Pansy's face scrunched up, clearly offended.

"So you're moving out of the boys dorm, then." Theo began, smirking a little more as dessert replaced the meals on the Slytherin table, helping himself to a piece of pie. "When's the wedding?"

Blaise snorted.

"Right after I throw up my supper." Draco snapped. Now it was Theo's turn to laugh. "As if living with the mudblood isn't going to be bad enough, now I'm gonna have you two making it worse?"

"Now, now, Draco, let's not get testy." Theo said, shoveling a mouthful of pie into his gaping jaws. He spoke with a full mouth. "But honestly, it just goes to show what you've been saying this whole time. This place really has gone to the dogs."

"Too right. A pureblood and a mudblood." Blaise murmured, causing Pansy to shudder openly next to Draco.

"On the plus side," Draco began, relaxing somewhat, "I'll have my own room, which will be a blessing. I'll be away from Theo's loud, obnoxious snoring."

"Lucky." Blaise commented, shooting a very suave, minor glare in Theo's direction.

The Great Hall seemed to go silent as the shroud occupied a very minor corner of it. Lenora Fawley entered, making her way towards the Slytherin table with unsure, yet uncannily graceful steps. Her cheeks looked hollow and her face, paler than usual. Draco felt another shiver rake along his spine as he recalled the sliver of interaction he had faced with her that very morning. Swimming in her robes, she sat at the very end of the table and turned her back towards her fellow housemates on an empty bench. Picking up a small plate, she reached out and began piling a humble amount of food onto it.

"Daphne." Pansy said, leaning towards her friend. Cupping hands around Daphne's ear, Pansy whispered something, likely devious. The two pulled back, nodding fervently to one another. Turning to the group, she gave a wry smile. "We're going back to the common room. Excuse us."

Pushing herself up, she slipped over the bench and slithered up to Lenora Fawley's right flank with Daphne. Reaching over her, Pansy boldly knocked the plate of food from the table. The plate bellowed a loud _CLANG_ as it hit the floor.

The Slytherins erupted in laughter. Even Draco chuckled a bit from the girl's antics, but his face had straightened out when he noticed that Lenora made no move to defend herself. Instead, she just stared listlessly at the spot where her plate had once been. He cleared his throat and felt eyes burning into the back of his skull. He dared not chance a glance behind him, knowing full well that McGonagall's icy eyes would rip into him the moment he turned his head. It was hardly _his_ fault that his peers were bold as brass. He ignored the itching at the back of his skull, claiming he could have laughed a little less.

"Ten points from Slytherin, Miss Parkinson." His eyes flashed to the head of wild tailbone-length curls that appeared beside Pansy, calling her snide attention. Almost instantly, Pansy had a scowl on her face that one could see for a mile. Hermione Granger countered it with an annoyingly cool, cocky disposition. Her robes hung off her, making her look rather haggard, and her fists were clenched at her sides. All the tell-tale signs of a mudblood gone off the deep end. Draco sneered habitually at her. "Not to mention a very long detention in the foreseeable future. Off to your dormitories. Now."

Pansy paused, her eyes flashing to the head table, where McGonagall sat. No professor arose to her defense. Of course. Huffing, Pansy tugged Daphne's sleeve. The two young girls disappeared from the Great Hall, and the rest of the students went back to finishing their dessert.

Hermione Granger, however, was not finished. Draco watched with a deepening frown while she walked the small distance over to Lenora, bending at the waist in her frumpy robes to speak with her in a hushed tone. her curtain of brown curls fell over her shoulder. In that moment, her expression softened somewhat, while still maintaining a strange authority; a confidence of self. Soon thereafter, Lenora Fawley arose from her seat, and most of the Slytherin table watched as Hermione accompanied the silent girl to Gryffindor table, where Luna Lovegood had already made up a plate of sweets for her.

"Of course. Leave it to the Gryffindors to come to the bloody rescue." Blaise quipped, thoroughly unamused as he turned away from the spectacle. He looked bored now; as though someone had just stolen his most entertaining toy.

"A Slytherin at a Gryffindor table." Goyle scoffed. "No wonder she's a blood traitor."

Draco chuckled lightly, ignoring the hateful weight in his stomach. "Well, at least she's not poisoning _our_ atmosphere."

* * *

The students filed out. Luna walked alongside Nora, completely oblivious to the fact that the girl hardly spoke a word. Perhaps she considered that a form of encouragement. Either way, Luna had boldly linked her arm with Nora's, telling her all about nargles and their inherent, mischievous properties. Hermione could have sworn she saw a ghostly smile twinge Nora's black lips, but perhaps it was a trick of light. But then again, she also had not thought she would ever see a Slytherin at a Gryffindor table.

Hermione remained behind, deciding not to get lost in the mass of black robes and happy, red faces. Instead, she waited until the majority of students had vacated the Great Hall before she slipped from her table and went to stand by the door dutifully. McGonagall was just finishing speaking with Hagrid, who offered Hermione a small, kind wave, accompanied by a smile of great affection. Hermione waved back, excited to see her old friend again.

As the students got fewer in number, Hermione chanced a look at the Slytherin table, where Draco still sat. He appeared to be in no rush to get up, at least until every last member of the student body had abandoned the area. Hermione rolled her eyes at the sight, and was pleased to have her gaze locked on an oncoming McGonagall, who beckoned Draco up from his seat with an impatient swish of her hand. He obliged begrudgingly.

"Alright. Now, both of you follow me, please." The Headmistress said finally, walking briskly from the Great Hall.

Easier said than done. The journey consisted of so many twists and turns up staircases that even Hermione found herself a bit lost. On command, the staircases moved to accommodate McGonagall's driving force, guiding the three higher, higher, and higher still. Past the third floor, and the fourth, and the fifth.

One particular moment, a staircase shifted just as they had breached the middle step, causing Hermione to accidentally brush her shoulder against the young Malfoy next to her. Both pulled instantly away from each other, as though burned or sullied by the contact. Hermione straightened her loose robes. Malfoy brushed his off. After an exchange of scowls, they were back to following the Headmistress in sullen silence to the seventh floor.

"How much further, Professor?" Hermione managed.

"Inconveniently further, Miss Granger." McGonagall huffed, rather breathless herself.

The final staircase they tackled reminded Hermione a great deal of the Ravenclaw tower. It went up in a swirling mass, large and thoroughly intimidating. Almost all three parties were out of oxygen by the time they reached the top step, where a single portrait of a witch reading tarot cards greeted them. She wore a dark dress. Her hair was blonde, long and flowing, with blue flowers decorating the golden tresses. She regarded them with a raised brow, but said nothing.

After a moment of regaining their bearings, McGonagall turned to the portrait.

"The password is _butterbeer_ , Morrigan." She said, still short of breath. With a wave of the portrait woman's hand, the entrance swung open, inward to the room.

Hermione's eyebrows creased momentarily in a flash of interest.

 _Morrigan... where have I heard that name before?_ She swiftly brushed off the inquiry with a shake of the wild curls on her head, straightening her shoulders as though the intrigue made her appear weak.

McGonagall waved them inside and the Heads followed her; curiosity far outweighing their exhaustion.

The first thing Draco noticed was the generous supply of windows. Several decorated the common area alone, which went 'round in a broad, roomy circle. More than enough for sunrises, sunsets, and everything in between. Already a thousand times better than that dingy Slytherin dorm.

There was a kitchenette in the far back center of the room. To its right, at the base of a small staircase, was a well-lit bathroom area. To its left, sitting just _before_ another staircase, was a generous-looking bookcase. He could almost hear Granger's heart flutter at the sight and he instantly scowled, habitually reminding himself that Malfoy Manor had a far greater selection.

Hermione appreciated the furniture, which stood as a testament of unity in the cozy living area before the fireplace, just before the kitchenette. It was a deep crimson with silver trimmings.

 _Of course_ , she thought to herself, briefly imagining a nonchalant, oblivious Malfoy sitting in front of the fire on a couch, throat slit with his blood matching the upholstery. It calmed her nerves indefinitely.

"Alright. The Head Girl's room is located just up the staircase to the right. The Head Boy's room is located up the staircase on the left. Now, before you enter, you must choose your passwords for your doors. It ensures maximum privacy for both parties." McGonagall stepped past them, nodding to both on her way. "I have already posted this week's schedule for Prefect patrols, so there's nothing to busy yourselves with tonight." She gave them one last look, ignoring Granger's obvious disappointment. "Goodnight, Miss Granger. Mr. Malfoy."

"Goodnight, Professor." Hermione replied in a weak voice, silently screaming; begging not to be left alone.

McGonagall didn't heed her pleas and instead, ushered herself away from the fold. Morrigan's portrait swung open, then closed behind the Headmistress. Silence became suffocating.

She felt her heart sink. Her fists were clenched at her sides, flexing gradually. She could _hear him_ shuffling around in her space and she was already irritated.

"Merlin." He mumbled, observing the cement walls closely. "What a dump."

" _What?_ " Hermione's head would have snapped off if she had whipped it around any harder. "What on earth are you talking about?"

"You actually think it's _nice_ here, Granger?" Malfoy snapped back, turning away from observing the dusty bookshelf to face her. His face now adopted his typical, smug expression. "Oh yeah, that's right. You had that thing goin' on for the Weasel. Guess you tend t'like things cozy, then?"

"Oh, please." Granger began, shaking her head. "At least I care about someone other than myself. I can't even imagine how you could think to entertain yourself here, Malfoy. There's all these windows and only _one_ mirror."

"How _dare_ assume anything about me." He hissed, closing in on her. This was usually the angle he chose right before he slung out that nasty, derogatory remark. The setup for the lowest blows. By now, they were practically nose-and-nose. Hermione raised her chin, defiant as ever, while also calculating the countless opportunities passing by to knee him in the groin and make a break for it. Let him cry _mudblood_ all he wanted. History showed that Hermione Granger was certainly not adverse to handling confrontations the muggle way.

"Yet it's perfectly civil to assume anything about me? How dare _you_ , Malfoy." She retorted, a hard red rising to her cheeks from fury.

"You disgusting little-"

He cut himself off. His eyes shifted down, resting momentarily on her left arm, which was covered by her robes. Granger folded her arms under her chest and her eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Little, _what_ , Malfoy?" She stepped closer, a certain fearlessness radiating through her being that made him stiffen. Her chin lowered, which only made her appear more dangerous. "Little _mudblood_?"

She was the testament of Gryffindor, indeed. Scarlet cheeks and a wild, golden mane. In this light, she almost had fangs. The glare on her face showed that she was mere seconds away from ripping directly into his flesh.

 _Certainly furry enough to be a bloody animal_ , Draco mused to himself as his inner cobra began to surface. Poison bubbled on his lips. Preemptive strike.

"In this instance, yeah." He grit out, defying her point with a hard wall of venomous ignorance. Draco was almost positive that her teeth would crack and crumble in her head if she clenched her jaw any tighter. He could see the muscles working in her face, shifting perpetually between hurt and rage.

"You are _so_ vile." She said finally, shaking her head. Her arms dropped to her sides and he almost presumed victory for himself, but she continued, resulting only in his irritated disappointment. By her semi-retreated posture, he could tell that she was changing up her game. "You parade around this room, presuming to know _everything_ about me. I'm a _disgusting little mudblood,_ as you so generously pointed out, so I must be a pretty simple puzzle to solve. Let's have it, Malfoy. I like cozy things, correct? What else do I like?"

His eyebrows creased, regarding her with another skin-peeling sneer. "Maybe you should be asking me if I _care_ , Granger."

She ignored him.

"What's my favorite color? My birthday? My favorite book? What's the one smell that always reminds me of home? More importantly, how did it feel when your aunt carved _MUDBLOOD_ into my arm?" The air was thick around them; suffocating. Hermione shook her head, taking a step back. She adjusted her large bag of heavy books upon her shoulder, sensitive to the weight because of the climb. Her arms were folded under her chest again. "I get it, Malfoy. I'm dirty and you're not. So, unless you have a different tune to sing, I'm saying _goodnight_. The war is over. We won. I have more important things to worry about than appeasing your daft sense of superiority. You know, like besting you in class. Again."

"Screw you, Granger." Malfoy snapped, turning on his heel and marching up the stairs to the left, hissing _mudblood_ at his entrance.

Hermione did the same up the stairs to the right, muttering _ferret_ for hers.

 **SLAM - SLAM** , went the doors.


	5. Fuel To Fire

_**FUEL TO FIRE**_

 _That arrogant, foul, pompous... **arse**!_

Her door shut with a deafening **SLAM**. She heard it echoed by Malfoy's door just across the way. _How dare he. How **dare** he!_ She kept murmuring the words to herself, panting all over again with an undeniable rage. Fury invaded every ventricle of her being like a poison, disallowing any good, calming emotion to come in and save her. She was vibrating, dark, angry - _hurt_. The war was over, yet in this moment, she felt as though it would never end.

Lithe digits lifted to haul her heavy bag from her shoulder, which sighed with relief from the loss of pressure. Completely enraged, Hermione dropped her books to the floor of her room, which she now had the opportunity to enjoy in silence.

Suddenly, this rounded cove was a safe haven - a sanctuary _away_ from such hate. The room had a desk against the stone wall, right beside the only window, which was facing the sunrise, and had a reading nook. Her bed was a simple twin, which looked more and more comfortable by the second. At the foot of the bed, there was a dresser. Her trunk was tucked neatly in the small space between the dresser and the bed, which had a strong, solid and thick base of oak to keep it from creaking. Solid.

A soft mew caught Hermione's attention and her eyes fell upon Crookshanks, who had ventured out from under the desk to greet her.

"Crookshanks!" Hermione exclaimed in a whisper as she reached for her familiar, hauling him to her chest. The cat mewed again, though he appeared somewhat content in the arms of its owner for now. Slightly more at ease, Hermione peered around the room once more, gaining new appreciation for it. A wave of peace swept through her. She felt brave again.

Everything was red, trimmed in silver. She ignored it, reminding herself only of her Gryffindor pride. This place was now hallowed ground, and she could already tell that she would be praying to this temple plenty; hoping to find just enough strength to make it through the year without committing any felonies.

To occupy her mind, she went to pull out her trunk, lifting it with great difficulty onto her bed. She undid it and shoved the lid open, deciding to put away her clothes. In a burst of heat that made her cheeks go red with anger once more, she shrugged off her robes and hauled her sweater vest off her body. Her tie was undone and slipped over her head. She undid a few buttons of her blouse to get some airflow and wiggled out of her black stockings. All the used clothes were tossed into the nearby hamper. Her uniform for the next day was already settled upon the seat of the chair at her desk. Now, she was in bare feet, feeling like a very minor weight had been lifted. She shimmied her thin fingers through her wild hair to move it out of her face, then proceeded to begin unpacking.

* * *

Draco shrugged off his robes and slung them over the back of the chair at his desk. He had not even bothered to admire the room before lazily tossing himself onto his bed, throwing his forearm over his eyes. _Filthy little bitch,_ his mind spat, making him grimace. None of this could possibly work out for the better. Already, they were at each other's throats, and he was still shaking from the confrontation that just took place. He wanted to hex her straight through to Sunday, and that sort of sentiment would not fade, ever. Not easily. Not soon enough. Not _ever_. Every time his eyes fell upon the girl, all he saw was disgrace to magic; even worse, since she was right about besting him in their classes.

 _Again_. She said that with such conviction. _Again_. _Again. **Again**_.

 **You'll do better this year, won't you, Draco.** It was not a question, but a command. It summoned the worst in him, no matter the affection implied by the hand on the back of his neck. Lucius coiled his fingers tighter around his son's neck, making Draco nod, though he was stiff in his father's grasp. Lucius relented his grip, offering Draco little more than a reassuring pat on the back that never quite held the effect intended. **You'll make us proud**. He had nodded again, reassuring Lucius the only way he knew how.

 _Of course, father. You can count on me._

Lucius gave nothing more than a tight-lipped smile, nodding in return. It was enough for Draco's chest to swell with Malfoy pride. Narcissa had said nothing on the topic. Her eyes were still distant, but grew kinder as they settled upon her son. Draco bowed his head a little in response, but her gaze never faltered.

 **We have always counted on you, Draco**. She said with an unwavering faith that almost hurt him.

He still remembered when she had grabbed his hand in the Great Hall, reassuring him that this was where they belonged. Not in the war, not on the good side, and not in the Great Hall, but together. The good side was nothing more than the lesser of two evils, according to the Malfoys. Neither party entirely correct in their battles. War was still war, and the Malfoys were not heroes. They did not fight for the sake of good, but for the sake of survival. The Trio, McGonagall, Dumbledore (he winced visibly at the name) - not one of them could possibly understand the reasons the Malfoys had switched sides at the last moment. There was no belief in retribution or honor. It was smoke and mirrors, playing the wits of gullible Gryffindors (who apparently all had inherent suicidal tendencies - present Head Girl included) in order to make it out of the fray alive. They had housed a master of genocide just to live, served him just to live, and when they found him at his weakest point, they fought next to his enemies (who were just as dangerous) just to live.

There were no blinding heroics in the Malfoy bloodline. Their family motto ought to have been _don't be a hero_ , but it sounded much less sophisticated. Draco was no coward, but he was also not brave.

 _At least I care about someone other than myself._

She had no idea how wrong she was. He would go to the lowest levels to protect his family, and had done so by siding with halfbreeds and blood traitors. Even his parents never questioned it.

He shrank under the wings of heroes, not for a switch in belief, but from the sheer, unrelenting desire not to be killed.

End of story.

* * *

Hermione slid the sock drawer closed, sighing and wishing briefly that she had some music to accompany her task. At home, she had always done her chores while listening to music. In order to curb the compulsion, she began to hum softly to herself; something familiar and warming. The first little ditty was a lullaby that her mother used to hum to her in order to get her to go to sleep when she was a child. Hermione had eventually turned it into a piano tune when she had grown into the more advanced classes; learned in the instrument.

Hobbling with her empty trunk, she sank it to the floor and rolled it back to its original position, wiping the sweat from her brow. She wanted terribly to take a shower, but there was a stone sinking in her stomach that challenged her need for cleanliness when she thought of running into Malfoy. Hermione clenched her jaw, growing hotter still. She had already gone almost an entire hour without thinking about that prat. Her fists flexed and a resounding sigh fled through her freckled nostrils, making them flare. Her brown eyes darkened at her door almost dangerously.

 _Bugger this. No Gryffindor I know runs and hides from a bully._ Courage was thickening in her veins, challenging her fears. Abruptly, the muggle-born witch snooped through her drawers, hauling out a pale pink, long-sleeved shirt and white-and-navy pin-striped pajama pants, crumpling them up in her hands while she huffed.

After one last look at her bedroom door, she charged, grabbing her midnight-blue bathrobe from the back of her door, stalking out of her room and closing the door behind her.

She was a little stealthier as she breached the bottom of her steps. The living area was dead silent; almost foreboding with the shroud of darkness crowding it. Ghosts felt as though they were tucked into every corner. She could hardly see a thing, and was astonished that she had actually managed to make it into her bedroom without tripping over the large, roomy couch.

Abruptly taking action, Hermione practically sprinted into the bathroom and closed the door behind her, locking it with a huff of triumph.

It was then that the bathroom came to life, sensing her presence and lighting up with three lanterns on almost every wall. There was a large bath in the center, embedded in the floor of the bathroom, a toilet in the far right corner, and on the far left, there was an optional shower, which was walled with permanently foggy windows. Not far from the toilet, against the wall, was a large vanity, a strong countertop with two joined sinks. Hermione appreciated the spaciousness of the bathroom for a moment before shifting her gaze between the bath and the shower.

 _... I think I've earned a bath._ She decided with a firm nod, whipping the tip of her wand skillfully at the taps to turn them on. Oils and water poured happily, and in different colors, from the several spouts. Hermione caught the strong scent of creamy strawberries; one of her favorite scents. It was as if Hogwarts had personalized itself with her preferences, and accommodated with a grin. Smiling to herself, she undressed and set her clothing on top of the counter. A towel was settled at the rim of the bath and her wand was placed atop it.

She practically sang as she sank - step by step - into the water. Thankful to have some cover, her muscles relaxed. Stress slowly ebbed away and Hermione eventually found herself sinking as she went about her usual bath routine.

" _Kiss me, down by the broken tree-house. Swing me upon its hanging tire..._ " A rather popular song just over a year ago, Hermione had always enjoyed Sixpence None the Richer.

Drowning in calm, Hermione's thoughts drifted along with the lyrics, briefly feeling butterflies in her stomach as she thought of (and longed for) Ron's arms to slip around her again. She also ignored the sinking feeling in her stomach that reminded her of all the times he didn't. She still sang the words " _so kiss me_ " with a little smile on her lips, her tone soft and supple; sweet, and uncharacteristically welcoming. Only for the love of a little lion man, she supposed, grinning to herself as her own dreamy world of hopes consumed her.

 _These things take time, Hermione. Practise makes perfect_. Her mother's words rang in her head.

 _Journeys end in lovers meeting_.

 **So kiss me**...

Somewhere in the distance, Draco had nodded off, and was toeing the surreal portion of his subconscious, right between _sleeping_ and _awake_ , where he was sure that he heard the soft, far-away singing. Disregarding it for a part of his dream, he rolled over and buried his face into his pillow. A hint of a smile played on his lips from the softness of the siren.

Hermione Granger felt like a whole new woman as she exited the bath. She eventually opened the door to the bathroom, letting creamy-strawberry-scented steam billow from the area, into the common room. Her smile was permanent on her face, donning her blue robe, which was open, and her pajamas. Her dirty clothes were already clutched in her hand, ready for the hamper. A towel was slung around her shoulders for the sole purpose of drying her unruly hair.

She had paused in the midst of her happy, pink-cheeked humming when her eyes settled upon a hidden object in the far curve of the living area. It was all black and covered, with a bench, but she still let her jaw drop in pleasant shock. There was no light coming from the window it stood in front of, so it took Hermione a full moment to register that a piano was hiding within the shadows. With a small, happy scoff, she crossed the threshold and went to admire the instrument, which she had spent years developing as a hobby.

Almost gingerly, she lifted the cover, roving her fingers over the keys, yet painfully careful not to give into the temptation of plucking them. After a brief, wary glance towards Draco's room, she thought better than to succumb to the desire and sink into the bench to play a few melodies, but she could not resist just _having a little look at it_.

Eventually, she assured herself that the weekend would reward her by letting her tickle the ivory, and she closed the lid, heading back to her room while humming happily.

"Ferret." She murmured, and her bedroom door opened.

 **So kiss me**...

* * *

Draco Malfoy had woken up at the arse-crack of dawn, having passed out over his covers and in his uniform by accident. The sun's rays certainly had a knack for making themselves known in his room, forcing him to sit up and rub his eyes while he saw spots. He had to admit, though, this was the best - albeit shortest - sleep he'd had in ages. He found himself suddenly refreshed and buzzing with energy. He had a rather pleasant dream the night before. He vaguely recalled someone singing in it. Unfamiliar as the tune was, he found it lulling, soft, and he could have sworn he pictured a siren humming it to him, trying to coax him off the edge of a ship in the midst of a raging sea.

Taking advantage of his surprisingly good mood, he grabbed his secondary uniform and decided to make use of the shower before the furry bookworm decided to occupy it.

He did not admire the bathroom the same way Hermione Granger had. He took a glance around, nodded briefly in confirmation, and undressed, setting his freshly pressed uniform on the counter before stripping away the one he had managed to pass out in, tossing that one on the floor carelessly. He locked the bathroom door for good measure, not wanting his mood to be ruined by any chance Granger intrusion, and turned on the taps for the shower, stepping inside.

Why the hell did it smell like creamy strawberries in here?

* * *

Hermione had awoken and momentarily forgot where she was. Groggy from what little sleep she had obtained, she did not put any thought into her actions as she lifted her upper half away from the bed, combing her fingers through her loose, tangled curls. She was reminded of her living situation as her eyes adjusted to the bright sun pouring through her window, illuminating the simple beauty of her private chambers. Smiling dully to herself, she pushed away her blankets, made her bed, and pulled her hair into a tight bun.

Eventually, she descended the steps, still in her pajamas. She had some time until she needed to get changed for class. Hearing the water from the shower behind the bathroom door, she groaned, wanting so terribly to brush her teeth. Instead of getting frustrated about her predicament, she chose to let it slide and make coffee instead, just for a more pleasant wake-up.

She yawned as she put the kettle on the humble stove to boil, setting up the French press and placing two hefty scoops of pre-ground coffee into the base, as well as three scoops of sugar. Once it was set, she hummed and waited for the kettle to boil. Now and then, she could hear sounds emitting from the shower and could have sworn that they resembled the tune she had been singing the night before. She made a face, scrunched up her nose, and disregarded the fact entirely. The notes were more like minor grunts and sounded like he was trying to sing a song he had forgotten the rest of. Off-tune, just as well. Hermione resumed her humming and when the kettle whistled its alarm, she began to prepare the coffee.

Within five minutes, her cup was made and she had succumbed to the desires of her hobby, crossing the threshold of the living area. She decided that perhaps tickling the keys would lighten her mood while she waited for Draco to finish up with his shower. She lifted the lid and admired the ivory, placing her coffee on the small platform to the right of the highest C.

Her fingers stilled on the keys, suddenly feeling self-conscious. Warily, she plucked the first few tentative notes of the Moonlight Sonata. When she did not hear the shower stop within the confines of the bathroom, she grew a little more bold, changing her tune to something less-known. A piece from her father's favorite composer, who was not ancient, and certainly not dead. Ensuring the tranquility of the piece, her shoulders tensed, and she began a little too abruptly, which made her wince. Recalling the sheet music in her mind, her fingers danced across the keys. Her spine was rigid, and her fingers mechanical, but the melody flowed nicely enough.

She did not close her eyes, and instead, watched her own hands with sheer concentration.

* * *

The faint tune plummeted through the bathroom door and hit Draco's ears, though he had to strain a little to hear it. Scowling to himself in confusion, he opened the door of the shower and popped his head out for a brief moment to listen. When the tune became a little clearer, his scowl deepened and he shook his head, finding the noise distasteful. The melody - likely a _bloody muggle_ composition - would have at least been satisfactory if the notes had not sounded rigid and forced; like the player had a stick jammed righteously up their backside. Groaning, he threaded his fingers through his hair, wondering if he would actually have to listen to Granger's shoddy playing on a regular basis.

He heard no passion in the tickling of the ivories. Instead, all he felt was listless.

The girl was hopeless. She couldn't even _portray_ passion properly.

Perhaps he should not have been surprised.

There was no manual for passion.

No wonder she wound up with the Weasel. The boy was about as romantic as a tree stump.

Upon finally exiting the shower and turning off the taps, he could hear the tune much clearer without the running water bogging it down. Some parts felt rigid with concentration, but other parts flowed a little nicer; indicative of her putting a little more emotion into the piece. He noticed that it _was_ more than likely a Muggle composition, since some of the flourishes and accents on the keys were unfamiliar to him.

Once he was dressed, he exited the bathroom with his dirty clothes in hand. His hair was patted down and drying nicely on his head, helped along with a bit of magic, of course. He did not rush off to his room to put his laundry in the hamper just yet. Instead, he listened. He was right. As usual. The girl had just about as much emotion in her playing as a textbook. Her back was facing him and he could already tell that she was watching her movements closely, concentrating hard. Her shoulders were curled and rucked up almost to her ears from her tension.

"Jeez, Granger, could you play that with a little _more_ dead air?"

The sound of his voice seemed to put her off so hard that she had struck the wrong keys and whipped around to face him. Her wide-eyed look of shock instantly shifted to that of anger. She looked as though she were about to speak, which caused Draco to fold his arms slightly in preparation, smirking over at her smugly. Instead, she said nothing, turned back to the piano, took up her coffee, and closed the lid over the keys.

Draco Malfoy, unable to abide the silent treatment, continued. "Perhaps I shouldn't be surprised that there's no feeling in your playing. It's obviously a _muggle_ piece."

That hit the mark. The Gryffindor glared back at the Slytherin, ready to swallow him whole. Her cheeks were already a deep red.

"For your information, it's a wonderful piece! One that I enjoy playing, and will play again and again in the future." She countered, clutching her mug of coffee with white knuckles.

"I'm surprised to hear you say that, Granger, because all I felt while listening to that clash of chords was revulsion and a brand new appreciation for _our_ music. Even the songs I'm not particularly fond of."

Another mark struck. Right on the money. He watched as her cheeks reddened further. She would shatter her coffee mug in her grip any second now.

"And _I'm surprised_ you feel anything _about_ anything, even music, Malfoy. I'm positive you wouldn't know a moving piece or anything involving sentiment if it came up and bit you in the _arse_." She expressed the last word with extra emphasis, as though she was thoroughly uncomfortable saying it.

"Those are some strong words, coming from a muggle-born who just butchered a _muggle_ piece." He huffed. "Then again, I should have anticipated as much, coming from _you_ , considering you seem to know just as much about sentiment as myself."

"I know far more about _sentiment_ than your narrow pea-brain could ever fathom, Malfoy." Hermione growled out, glaring daggers at him now. If looks could kill, he would have been _sectumsempra_ 'd all over again. He winced invisibly at the memory. "You've done nothing for anybody except yourself-"

"Oh, that's why you're here, continuing your education without the other two members of the Trio, are you? For someone other than yourself?"

Hermione said nothing, becoming suddenly tight-lipped.

"Oooh." He drawled out, grinning a little wider. "Struck a nerve, have I?" He ventured further into the living area, a cocky saunter in his step. Hermione became instantly rigid. He was getting to her, and this was a fantastic way to spend the morning. "Let me guess: things not going so well with the Weasel? Got tired of hiding in Potter's shadow of glory? That why you're hiding away from them at ol' reliable?"

"Don't assume that my care for my friends is anything less than genuine, Malfoy. Just because you-"

"Of course not. You're probably still doing their assignments habitually."

"How dare you! Harry and Ron were perfectly capable of achieving academic success without my help."

"Wow, Granger, you _almost_ convinced me." He drawled out again, rolling his eyes as he stepped fearlessly forward. After a moment, a light struck up in his mind and he made the deduction. Even with what little information he was provided, it was hardly a trifle to figure it out. "Oh... I see what it is." He held his tongue between his teeth for a moment, grinning deviously down at her now. His height towered over her and made her feel so _small_. "You've still got something to prove, don't you? Now that Weasel and Potter aren't around to validate you, what good could you possibly be?"

Her jaw clenched. He was spot on and she hated him for it.

"You have _no_ idea what you're talking-"

"I thought the war was over, Granger." He continued, making her nostrils flare. Her face was suddenly growing paler. "Or did you just mean the war was over for everyone else?"

"Enough." She managed finally, her voice cracking as she tried to keep it firm. She stole a glance down at her watch and huffed, realizing that it was time to get ready. She changed the subject in a panic and Draco could do nothing except smirk. "I'm going to class. Next time you take this long in the shower, I'm dragging you out myself."

She disappeared up the steps to change into her robes with tears in her eyes. For once, Malfoy said nothing, simply chuckling to himself as he went up his own steps to toss his robes in the hamper.

By the time Hermione exited her bedroom, Malfoy was gone, and she was alone.

Always alone. _Always_.

Alone with **him** _._

* * *

She had not heard from Harry and Ron in two weeks. It was Friday now, and as she lingered in Potions class, she made the calculation while Professor Slughorn dragged on about the long-term project that he was assigning the class for their end-of-term mark. She was gradually filtering out the unnecessary information, all while thinking absently and repeating the phrase in her mind.

It had been two weeks. It had been two weeks. It had been two _bloody_ weeks.

Every single interaction she had with Malfoy was grating on her nerves, making it impossible to think of anything except going home. She was overflowing with anger on a consistent basis and she spent almost every night tucking into bed early and crying herself to sleep. Draco Malfoy appeared totally unshaken by the effect he had on her, which only made it all worse. Hermione could feel the strength in her ebbing away and it was not getting any better, now that she had reminded herself about twenty times within the hour that _it had been two bloody weeks_ since she had heard from her best friends.

"... order to brew Felix Felicis, you will have to pair up with another student in the class, but not to worry! I've got it all worked out and I've posted a list with the person you'll be paired with on the door. You may look at it on your way out." Professor Slughorn's voice leaked back into her mind and Hermione snapped to attention. "The project will be due in six months. Should you have any issues, you may come to me and discuss them. Class dismissed."

She began gathering her things, stuffing them into her shoulder bag while the class filed out.

"Miss Granger." Slughorn's voice caught her attention again as she rose from her seat, looking over at him. "I wonder if I might have a word?"

She nodded. "Of course, Professor."

When she ventured close enough, the kind - albeit superficial Professor - had bowed his head and spoken to her in a more hushed tone.

"I understand that Mr. Potter will not be joining us this year, and - though that is a terrible shame - I wanted to extend to you the opportunity to attend some more of my get togethers this year. Would that please you, Miss Granger?"

Almost instantly, Hermione brightened. Another reason to stay out of Malfoy's presence was all the more inspiring.

"I'd be delighted, sir." She replied in a genuine tone.

"Excellent! Keep an eye out for my owl, then." She had nodded with a smile and turned to leave, but froze with a sense of dread when he caught her again. "Uh, Miss Granger?" She turned back to him. "Do extend the offer to Mister Malfoy as well, will you?"

Hermione's face fell. "Sir?"

"Well, you see, since the war, I haven't been on the best of terms with the Death- er... the Malfoys. I'd like to amend that, but I'm unsure how. Not without appearing too forward, of course." He explained, stuttering a little.

Her heart almost cracked down the middle. She could have cried right there.

Ever the Gryffindor, she could not find the heart to refuse Professor Slughorn's request.

"Of course, sir." She replied finally.

Slughorn clapped his hands together, delighted.

"Excellent! Truly excellent, thank you, Miss Granger."

"No trouble at all, sir." She said with a smile that did not reach her eyes.

 _But if you find me dead, don't believe the suicide note_.

Passing by the door, she stopped to observe the list, and was granted a little reprieve when she found that she was paired with Lenora Fawley. Her worries eased a little.

* * *

Granger must have decided she wasn't hungry, after all. Draco did not see her come in for dinner. Probably off moping in the library, or occupying herself with butchering another muggle melody. She had really redefined the term _pathetic_ since she did not have Potter and Weasel around to validate her anymore, he thought with an air of ignorance, while scowling a little at Lenora Fawley, who had occupied a seat at the Gryffindor table. She was silent, watching as Ginny Weasley and Luna Lovegood bickered about something. Occasionally, the corners of her dark, painted lips would lift in amusement from their exchange, her soul-sucking gaze passing between the two. Luna appeared to be completely calm in the battle, almost smiling with wit, whilst the Weaselette had cheeks that were growing furiously red with anger; a Gryffindor trait. Draco hid his minor amusement of the sight behind a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

"So, Draco." Theo began, jamming himself in the small space between Pansy and Draco, just to be a cock-block. Draco could almost hear Pansy glaring at the boy as he jerked his head back to generate some space between himself and Nott. "How is it with the _mudblood_?"

After a brief moment, Malfoy shook his head. "I hardly see how that's any of your business, Nott." He began. "But she's still alive, as you saw in Potions class, so let's say she got lucky."

"You mean _you_ got lucky." Blaise interjected, snorting with silent amusement. "I thought she would have tried to break your nose... again."

Draco became almost instantly cross. "Please. As if she'd have that opportunity twice in a lifetime." He spat out with venom, making Theodore grin wryly.

"You just seem to be getting bested by inferiors all over the place, Draco." Goyle interjected, seated next to Blaise, who eyed him with a look of indifference. Goyle had never spoken up against Malfoy prior to the war. In fact, he seemed almost afraid of the boy. This just went to show how little sway the Malfoys had over the wizarding world in the aftermath. "Funny, considering you fought for them."

"Oh, that's right." Theo exclaimed, inevitably wriggling himself in to sit between Draco and Pansy. Draco instantly found himself wishing that she was just pining for him again. At least that was easier to put up with than this racket. "Even your supremacist father crumbled at the hands of the mudbloods and blood traitors in the end."

Draco slammed his fist hard on the table, causing majority of Slytherins to stop what they were doing and look over at the spectacle. He turned and scowled directly at Theo, who appeared blank in expression.

"I'm warning you, Theo. Underestimating me _will_ be the last thing you ever do." He warned.

"I'd back down, Theo." Blaise interjected, indifferent as ever, but it appeared as though he liked the idea of avoiding a scene. "Particularly since you weren't exactly the bravest knight in the bunch during the war. Even with your Death Eater father, you still only managed to grow enough balls to cower in the dungeons with the rest of us Slytherins."

Draco shot a half-pissed, half-confused look at Blaise. "What are you talking about?"

"You never heard about this? Blimey." Blaise chuckled, now amused. "Parkinson got stupid during the war, when Voldemort wanted the school to turn over Potter. She was all for selling him out. Got the whole Slytherin house locked up in the dungeons." He used the term _Voldemort_ nonchalantly. Not You-Know-Who, nor The Dark Lord. Blaise never really cared for wars in general, let alone the sides who marched for them.

"They should have listened to me, too. Look how many people died because of resistance." Pansy barked across the table at Blaise, who scoffed immediately.

"More would have died if Potter hadn't won that battle, Parkinson. Do the math." Theo retorted, the hot seat being changed.

Goyle scoffed. "Only mudbloods and traitors would have been killed. Like the Weasleys... or the _Malfoys_."

Any ounce of laughter rumbling from those close by was instantly muted. Draco was across the table in seconds. His hand grabbing the scruff of Goyle's collar. The edge of his wand sliced into the brute's throat, making him suddenly terrified. Good. This was the Malfoy he remembered being. Powerful, terrifying, and dangerous.

"I might have switched sides during the war, Goyle, but that never meant I supported the cause. It was survival. Nothing more. If you had _any_ idea about self-preservation, maybe you wouldn't have lost Crabbe. Remember that." His words were low, threatening, and they terrified Goyle to his very core. The boy did little more than nod. He did not need to look over at the head table to know that McGonagall was eyeing him with a warning tone in her eyes. Draco released him and pushed himself back from the table. He was quick to storm from the Great Hall almost instantly.

His fists were clenched so tightly at his sides that his fingers were numb. The Malfoy name had been more sullied from the war than even _he_ fathomed. Goyle's outburst was proof enough. He was nothing now - his _family_ was nothing. Acquitted solely on the account of switching sides. If they had not, the lot of them would have been locked up in Azkaban. How the _bloody hell_ didn't people see that? Draco was infuriated; embarrassed, and thoroughly ashamed. How could he have let himself fall so far?

The war was petrifying, yes. He had watched one of his former teachers die and get digested in Nagini's belly whilst the Death Eaters laughed heartily. He tortured people. He maimed. Then something happened to the Malfoy family. Something infected them that had been long overdue. The love of a mother had changed them. Sides switched. Priorities switched. Though Draco had been supremely relieved that they were rid of Voldemort's burden, it never really lessened the strain, nor did it make them Muggle-loving Hufflepuffs. The purity of their lineage was still an utmost priority. He was expected to marry a pureblood and continue the Malfoy name. Prejudices never became less important, they just sat on the backburner when their lives were on the line.

He would show them. He'd show them all. Starting with the source of this wretched goodness.

Granger.

He almost growled as he marched his way through the inconvenient twists and turns aiming towards their dormitory. He had blinders on at this point. Every ounce of him quivering with unrequited hate. She was the only outlet; his lasting evidence that the Malfoys had not succumbed to dust. He would brand her with his rage if it was the last thing he did.

The spiral stairs for the tower got shorter and shorter in distance as he closed in on Morrigan's portrait. He almost looked through her, and she regarded him with a raised brow.

" _Butterbeer_." He hissed through clenched teeth. She looked visibly shocked, and the portrait swung open. He marched through and the very _millisecond_ his eyes found their target, he was ready for bloodshed.

Indeed. The war was _not_ over.

* * *

A/N: This chapter was too long, so I had to cut it short. The next one will be up soon enough. I already have it outlined.

The song I saw Hermione playing on the piano was called "At the Ivy Gate" by Brian Crain.

Feedback is always highly welcomed. Thank you all for reading.


	6. Embers

_**EMBERS**_

The last thing she remembered was sitting down with a clementine supplied by the house elves at the kitchenette. She had started peeling the rind in a habitual spiral pattern with her eyes glued to a page she was reading. The book rested on her knees, open to her eyes. Inviting, just like the roaring fire before her.

The only thing she knew now was that Draco Malfoy was staring her down after bursting through Morrigan's portrait. His cold grey eyes took on the form of knives, cutting into her. Her flesh prickled in defense. For a moment, he said nothing, and looked as though he had forgotten what he was there for.

He hadn't. He had just realized that he had nothing truly prepared to lay into her with.

"Malfoy." Her voice made him snap his attention to her face, which he suddenly wanted to harm. She looked... tired. Peaceful in her literary stupor. There was a blanket over her knees, her hair hung wild around her right shoulder. She looked like a testament of pure contentment, creating a spiral with the rind of her clementine; an altruistic albatross. The flames of the fire glowed against her face, blocking out portions of the freckles on her nose. Her eyes were lighter, wider... blanker. She had no idea what was coming. "What's your problem?"

"I'd almost forgotten I was living with a dirty, lazy muggle-born who is _apparently_ now nested in the common area of my dorm." He snapped, suddenly looking more comfortable in his space.

At first, she was silent, studying him. A part of her expression was taken aback, but then her eyes blinked slowly; languidly. In that moment, she appeared to have given up the fight before it had even begun. This was swiftly becoming a counterproductive practice, but with Malfoy determination in his veins, he _would_ rouse the fire in her. He needed to, for piece of mind. He needed to know nothing had changed.

Hermione did little more than scoff, since she was far too exhausted to bicker. "It's my common area too. I'll sit where I please, so you might as well get used to it."

"I doubt I'll ever get used to this. It must kill you, really. Knowing you're stuck in the same room with someone who hates your guts." He seethed.

...

Oh, she did _not_ just ignore him.

"Oi. Granger." He snapped, approaching her. When she didn't respond, he leaned down, seeing a few tears glistening in her eyes. "Oh, you're gonna cry now? You've been doing that a lot lately, you know."

She said nothing still; only sniffled.

Seething, he reached out and knocked her half-peeled clementine to the floor, along with her book.

That got the reaction he was looking for.

Almost instantly, she was on her feet, staring him down with a deadly glint in her watering eyes. Her wand was clutched tightly in her hand, pointed directly at him.

Draco swallowed hard, but held a stony expression, refusing to show fear, even as she closed in on him and jabbed the point of her wand just under his chin. The silence around them thrummed. The walls almost shuddered against the winds of the storm brewing outside, and it only seemed to fuel her anger, jamming the edge of her wand harder into his flesh. Now, in her rage, tears spilled along her cheeks. Her cheeks were flushed from fury and embarrassment. Her chest heaved against her crinkled Hogwarts uniform. She had taken off her usual black stockings and he could see her knees trembling from the weight of this escalation.

"You don't need to know why I've been crying, or that I've been crying at all. It's _really_ none of your business." Hermione said, her tone dangerously low and calm, even in the midst of the obvious troubles creating rivers down her cheeks. "I fought for my place here, Malfoy, and I earned it. Not because of my friends, and not because of my _blood handicap_. I earned it by being better than people like _you;_ both academically, and morally. I'll keep earning my place, whether you like it or not. And you can fight me. You can cry _mudblood_ all you like, but the fact remains - and this is the hardest medicine you will _ever_ have to swallow..."

She paused and leaned in close, almost nose-to-nose. He could smell the salt pouring down to her jaw, clenching his own firmly.

"You. Are. _Beneath_ me." She managed through gritted teeth. "And you always will be."

Almost instantly, the atmosphere shifted, and Hermione swiftly realized that she was playing with a vengeful fire.

 _Dangerous_.

Before she could blink, her wand was knocked from her hand by his own. The collar of her blouse had been snatched so hard that some of her front buttons ripped from their sockets. She was thrust up against the book case; a few of the pieces fell from their spots as it trembled under the weight of such a confrontation. On instinct, she had raised her hand with an open palm, ready to slap him stupid for even thinking about putting his hands on her. Her wrist was seized and pinned painfully to the shelf with Draco closing in on her.

Both of their chests were heaving by now, and they were _definitely_ nose-to-nose. His breath washed over her face as she stared him down. Chin tilted up; unafraid.

"Don't underestimate me, Granger." Malfoy hissed. "You _will_ regret it."

"Oh, no." Hermione shook her head, causing Draco to apply a little more pressure to his hold from her defiance. "You don't get to do that, Malfoy. Not after the Manor."

Draco paused. "What are you talking about."

"I was there, remember? I was there when Bellatrix asked you to identify Harry." She was wheezing now. He had his body flush against her own, pinning her in place. Her heart was hammering so hard against the marrow bars of her ribs that she was almost positive he could feel it. His own was frantic and panicked. "You had every chance to show _them_ what you were capable of. And me." He almost shuddered. "You could have shown _me_. But you didn't. You said you weren't sure, and then you sat in the corner. You never once laid a hand on me, when you had _every single opportunity_ to do so."

He never relinquished his grip on her, staring her down. His fingers were bruising her wrists. Hermione swallowed hard, trying her hardest not to lose her composure, or whimper in pain.

"I've seen you at your worst, Malfoy. I know _exactly_ what you're capable of..." She drew in a shuddering breath against him, her breasts molding to his chest. He felt every piece of her and he _hated_ it, but he never loosened his grip. "And it's _nothing_."

"Fuck you, Granger-"

"You joined our side just to live, I know. I never painted you as anything more than what you already are, Malfoy. A _coward_ -"

"Shut up!" He shouted, slamming her hard against the book case again. Her head spun a little, but she managed to keep her eyes focused. "What I did, I did for _survival_."

"It's the same thing, Malfoy!"

"It is not! You don't know the things I did just to keep my family safe." His voice broke in the last sentence. Hermione's eyes widened as the tears were drying on her cheeks. He heaved against her. His heart was a battering ram. He was starting to sweat. "I took the Mark, Granger! I tortured people! I watched people die! I saw people I _knew_ get-" He cut himself off. There was a moment of silence as he realized he was revealing too much. Her honest eyes were large as saucers and he felt something wet hitting the rim of his right nostril.

He tasted salt.

Was he crying?

He looked away from her then, but not far. His cold, grey eyes surveying the right - _her_ left. Above the elbow, just below the wrist. Messy and uncentered. Off balance. It was right there in a deep, white, ugly scar.

 _MUDBLOOD_.

It was right there, on her arm. It never left. Her ripped blouse had been rolled up at the sleeves. Her Gryffindor tie askew. But it was there. Right there.

She would never forget.

He would never able to get her screams out of his head.

"Bellatrix did it all better, though... didn't she." He mumbled to nobody in particular, his voice nothing above a whisper that Hermione had to strain in order to hear. His hand shifted; thumb roving over the pale permanence, almost in admiration. It contrasted sun-kissed skin. It made her shudder. "She didn't have any inhibitions... no conscience... she just _was_ \- and she just _did_..."

Hermione said nothing, now with a look of absolute horror and shock as she observed the demeanor cracking in his expression. He was coming undone right in front of her and all she could do was watch, pinned in place - both by him and her own paralyzing realization that he never wanted to be one of _them_ in the first place. Or, maybe he did, once upon a time, but never truly knew what that entailed until he took the Mark. Either way, in the aftermath, the Malfoy empire had crumbled, and he was the fragmented remains.

"But I _couldn't_ -" He cut himself off, choking on his own voice.

"Malfoy-" Her voice was like a lightning rod to his senses. It was then he realized that her free hand was gripping his bicep tightly, as though she were trying to keep him in place. He knocked her off of him by the elbow.

"NO!"

His grip released her wrist, only by a fraction. When she had moved forward, he shoved her back from him and stepped away, instantly generating as much distance as possible between their bodies.

This was where he'd gotten a good look at her. Her chest was heaving. The first few buttons of her blouse had been ripped from their sockets. He could see the outline of her pale blue bra, just barely hidden under her skewed Gryffindor tie. Her hair was coming out from its tight bun in loose curls. Maybe the elastic holding the wretched ball of hair had finally snapped under the weight of her rats nest. She was staring at him in awe with her arms at her sides. Her wand on the floor. Her bare legs quivered under her skirt.

"Don't you _dare_ touch me." Draco sneered, even through his weaknesses. "I'm not a bloody Gryffindor project." Aware now that he was painfully exposed, he reached up to wipe his nose with the back of his hand, turning away from her slightly.

Hermione said nothing, stepping away from the book case. Overwrought with innate horror, every nerve-ending suddenly found itself burning to comfort him. She knew precisely what happened when things like this festered. It caused breakdowns far worse in damage.

"Get out." He hissed finally, almost able to tell from the look in her eyes, precisely what she was thinking.

Hermione needed no second telling. She wasted no time in practically flying past him, snatching her wand from the floor, bolting up her steps, and barking ' _ferret_ ' before entering her room.

It sounded so _childish_ now. She had even realized when the door closed behind her that she had left all her books _and_ her clementine in the living area.

It didn't matter. She wasn't going back out there.

Ever.

Draco had wiped his hands over his face, eventually smoothing his hair back from his eyes as he wandered over to the couch, blindly taking a seat. He grimaced when he felt Granger's blanket under his arse, reaching down to grasp it and wiggle it out from its spot. He caught a whiff of the scent she had left behind.

Creamy strawberries.

He froze a moment, frowned, then gently slung the blanket over the arm of the couch, resting his elbows on his knees.

This had not been the plan. He wasn't supposed to come undone. He wasn't supposed to turn this into a confession. He was supposed to make her grovel and beg to die under his scrutiny. He raked his fingers over his cheeks, ultimately hating himself. In the distance, he could hear Granger's light, airy sobs. They sent a chill up his spine and he ignored it, staring into the fire in front of him.

When that became too blinding, he glanced down at the book he had so viciously knocked from her knees. The half-peeled clementine she was preparing to eat lay recklessly beside it, and it mocked him.

 _Shit_.

The only time he had seen Granger so hysterical was back at the Manor. He cringed from the memory. He remembered how she screamed. Sometimes, it filled his dreams. He would need to purge his system of this war eventually, and with Granger around, that was just becoming more trouble than it was worth.

Unknowing of his own actions, he had reached down to pick up the clementine, observing its half-peeled state absently. Reaching up, he took hold of the rind between his fingers and continued the delicate spiral she had been performing, removing the unhealthy and bitter edge from the sweetness underneath. The symbolism of the fruit was not lost on him. He tossed the spiral-peel onto the coffee table and plucked away a few strays from the fruit before peeling apart the pieces and plucking them into his mouth.

In the midst of chewing, he looked to where the rind was thrown; carelessly atop a few pieces of parchment and two envelopes. At first, he stared at them, trying to avoid the idea of reading them. Not out of respect for Granger's privacy, of course, but out of disinterest.

Alright, perhaps that was not entirely true.

He reached out for the first letter.

Of course. _Saint Potter._

He opened it, careful not to add any extra tears to the parchment as he slid it from the envelope and unfolded it. Steel caressed the words with venom boiling in his stomach, though he had paused at one point and murmured "birthday?" to himself.

When the hell was Granger's birthday?

 _What's my favorite color? My birthday? My favorite book? What's the one smell that always reminds me of home?_

Bugger _that_.

He closed the letter, sliding it back into the envelope and reaching for the next letter.

Weasel.

 _This oughtta be good_.

Of course, Draco was shocked to find that he had thoroughly underestimated Weasley's lack of poetry. Every single word was rife with horrible sentiments that sounded so distant, Draco was genuinely shocked that Granger even wasted her time with the fool. Unlike Potter, Weasley's letter was painfully short and almost cold. He had half expected a poorly-written, sappy love poem, or at least a letter filled to the brim with cliches and shit grammar. But this? This was a monument of a severely one-sided relationship.

Not like Draco was any better, but that was not the point.

He had noticed that, though Weasel's letter was shorter, colder, and more distant, it was floppy. It was creased. It had been folded and unfolded to the point where he was almost positive that Granger must have read it over a hundred times. She probably memorized every single _sodding_ word. The creases in the parchment told him that at some point - possibly more than once - it had been clutched tightly, probably to her chest. Girls did that a lot. Some of the words on the page were smeared.

She had _cried_ over this letter.

How pathetic was that?

 _On second thought... can't blame her. If I was dating a Weasel, I'd cry too._

Shaking his head, he scoffed and returned the flimsy letter back into its rightful envelope. The letters were tossed back onto the table, next to the spiral-peel. He had glanced briefly through the papers for others, but he found none. Given how many times she had read the Weasel's letter, it was likely that she had received these at least a week ago, maybe two.

Could that have been why she was practically crying when he first came in?

 _ **Beneath** me..._

Draco grimaced when he reminded himself that he did not care.

He got up, glowered at the damage caused in this room, then stalked off to bed.

 _I know exactly what you're capable of... and it's **nothing**_.

 _You. Are. **Beneath** me._

* * *

Hermione Granger felt like she was going mad. Even the walls around her were mocking her as she arose from the bed, rubbing crusts of dried tears from her eyes. She had cried herself to sleep. Again. After that confrontation with Malfoy, she certainly earned the right. The only time she had seen him so crumbled was at the Manor. His contorted expression of agony had only caused the worst memories to return to her.

Lucky for her, it was a Saturday, and she was going to occupy herself with actual friends, instead of being engrossed in her homework.

She never thought the idea would ever make her as happy as it did now, but there it was.

The Gryffindor listened hard before she made any motion to exit her room, putting her ear briefly to the door, just in case Malfoy was up and walking about. She had it in her mind to avoid him at all costs, because the last thing she needed was a redemption case. He was right. He wasn't a Gryffindor project, and she had no desire to make him one.

Hearing nothing, Hermione walked over to her dresser. From the drawers, she pulled socks, a grey, long-sleeved shirt, her navy blue sweater, and a pair of denim jeans. She grabbed her trainers before she cautiously opened her door with the bundle in her arms, sneaking along her steps and breathing a sigh of inherent relief that no blonde head of hair was present in the common area.

She was quick to slink into the bathroom. In what felt like moments, she was showered and changed, exiting the bathroom with a cloud of creamy-strawberry fog billowing behind her.

Her eyes briefly flashed to the clutter of the room. She always hated clutter, though she knew that lingering too long brought her inches closer to another Malfoy encounter. Silently cursing herself, she made her way over to the coffee table with her pajamas bundled in her hand.

It was here that she noticed the clementine peel, set next to the letters she had received from Harry and Ron two weeks ago. It didn't take her long to panic, really. Within moments, she had gathered everything that belonged to her and ushered it up to her room, hoping to Merlin that Draco had gone to bed instead of getting curious.

A part of her knew that was just wishful thinking.

Hermione groaned at the thought, tossing her pajamas into her hamper and exiting her room, closing the door behind her. She raked her fingers over her face, rubbing the sleep deprivation from her eyes in hopes that it would miraculously make her look healthier; more alive.

She doubted she would be that lucky.

* * *

Draco had been awake the whole time she was shuffling about the common area. Likely cleaning up the mess. However, he had waited until he heard Morrigan's portrait swing open and _click_ shut before he lifted himself from his bed and made his way towards the kitchenette to grab a piece of fruit to munch on.

He chose the green apple over the clementine this time.

He also glanced over to see that his theory was correct. She had cleaned. Her precious letters were gone.

Draco scoffed a little into the first bite of his apple; a part of him knowing that Granger had likely worked out that he had read her mail. It served her right, really, leaving them in the common area where a Slytherin had easy access to the secrets they held. She should have known by now that he wouldn't be able to resist the pull of his curiosity.

 _I never painted you as anything more than what you already are, Malfoy. A **coward** -_

That brought a frown to his face. For almost an entire moment, he had managed to forget all the things Granger had said to him. Now he was left to wallow.

How dare she say those things to him. She had a lot of nerve, putting him at the end of her wand, saying that he was _beneath_ her.

 _Beneath me_. **Beneath me**.

Filthy mudblood _bitch_.

That was it. No more. Draco had made an addendum to his entire schedule. From now on, the mudblood would crumble every time she entered the same room as him. _Fuck unity_. Disgusting Hufflepuff trash, that's what that was.

His glare at the back of the portrait could not have been more professional as he devoured his green apple and began the long journey to the Great Hall for a real breakfast.

* * *

"Hermione!" Luna's face instantly brightened as she straightened next to Nora. Nora's eyes flashed to Luna with an amused twinkle in her eyes. "You look dreadful." The Ravenclaw said in her usual, airy tone while Granger slid onto the Gryffindor bench across the table from the pair. "Have you not been sleeping well?"

"Of course she hasn't been sleeping well." Ginny countered haughtily, shifting to face the other three girls. "She's probably been able to hear Malfoy's temper through the walls of their dorm."

"You're spot-on with that one, Ginny." Hermione replied dryly, taking a sip of pumpkin juice.

"Lenora and I were going to visit Professor Sprout today. She wanted to have tea and talk about her dirigible plums. Father lost his during the war. It was quite saddening." Luna said.

Hermione stiffened at the mention, but shook her head a little in response. "Actually, I'm going to visit Hagrid for tea. He wanted to catch up."

"Well..." Ginny began, catching Hermione's attention as she dug into her breakfast. She was not that hungry, but she knew she needed to eat something. "We were actually wondering if you wanted to take a Hogsmeade trip next weekend? Everyone's going, and you seem like you could use the time away. You've been looking peaky, even at the Prefect meetings."

Gratitude instantly swelled in Hermione's chest and she nodded eagerly. "Of course I would!" There was a small pause of silence between the girls.

"Great. And you know, if you ever need to get out of that dorm, you can come to Gryffindor tower. There's always a place for you there." Hermione nodded again to Ginny, happy to know that there was a safe house she could run to if things turned out the way they did the night before. Ginny changed the subject. "By the way, did you hear? Slughorn's picking up his Slug Club activities again."

"Ugh, don't remind me." Hermione muttered, taking a small mouthful of her scrambled eggs.

"You don't want to be a part of it?" Luna asked. Nora tilted her head curiously.

"Slughorn's asked me to invite Malfoy along as well." The girls almost instantly frowned... except Luna. Luna appeared almost pleased.

"Well, isn't that just peachy." Ginny mumbled, unhappy with the arrangement. "As if you don't get enough of that git on a regular basis."

"Honestly." Hermione agreed, shaking her head.

"But you're still joining in with Slughorn, right?" Ginny prompted.

After a brief pause of consideration, Hermione nodded. "I think so. It seems more beneficial to be on Slughorn's good side, anyway." The muggle-born instantly went rigid, remembering something. "Oh! Speaking of Slughorn. Nora." Hermione turned her attention to the silent Slytherin, whose eyes had instantly gravitated to the Gryffindor. "I'm sure you saw Slughorn's list? That we're paired for brewing Liquid Luck?" Nora nodded firmly, swimming in a large black sweater. "Well, we are going to need a space for brewing it, somewhere we can keep it for six months-"

"Well, there are plenty of places for that. There's a classroom on the second floor that isn't being used. I'm sure McGonagall can give you permission to access it." Luna suggested.

"Brilliant." Hermione replied, suddenly finding a smile that reached her eyes. "We'll have to keep a very close eye on it, so we'll need constant access to it. I'll speak to Professor McGonagall about it. Nora, would you like to get together on Tuesday after classes to begin brewing? I have a Heads meeting on Monday."

Nora said nothing, but shrugged noncommittally and nodded.

She had grown exceedingly pale over the past few days, Hermione had noticed, and her motions were slower; less energized. Frowning suddenly, the Gryffindor leaned in, trying to keep her tone hushed so she wouldn't catch the attention of anyone else, apart from the girls already involved in the conversation.

"Nora... have you eaten anything this morning?" She asked finally. Nora froze, looking warily between the girls. Hermione sighed, pushing a nearby plate of toast towards her. "Please. Have some toast at least."

"Hermione's right, Lenora." Luna added in her sweet tone, reaching up to brush away a few strands of Nora's black hair. "Anxiety can make you nervous enough not to eat, but food is very important. You'll get sick if you don't eat. Then who would come with me to visit Professor Sprout?"

Nora's eyes flashed between the girls again. Ginny decided to lighten the mood.

"We haven't poisoned it, Nora. Promise." She said, causing a small laugh to rise from Hermione in response.

Nora hesitantly reached for a piece of buttered toast, plucking away small pieces and popping them into her mouth.

"The pumpkin juice is good for you too." Hermione added. "Plenty of vitamins. It should help give you some energy."

Luna absently slid her goblet over to Nora, who lifted it to her lips and took a generous gulp. Luna didn't mind. Instead, she busied herself with beginning a small braid in Nora's hair to occupy herself. She had done that with pretty much all her girlfriends. Not so much for the style, but just because she liked keeping her hands busy.

She had not meant to get distracted when Malfoy entered the Great Hall. But her eyes swept over him anyway. He was pristine. All sparkling and shiny and new. His white blonde hair was no longer tousled, and rested perfectly on his head. His expression held its normal cold countenance. Overall, he looked like himself again, albeit a little paler than normal.

He never looked at her once, merely wandering over to take his seat around his comrades at the Slytherin table. They greeted him with nods. Pansy made space for him, but appeared disheartened when he wound up taking a spot next to Blaise. Still, she leaned in to join the conversation Theodore Nott had struck up with him almost instantly.

"I'm surprised he actually came in today." Ginny said. "After that tussle with Goyle last night."

"What tussle?" Hermione asked, glancing over to the Weasley girl.

"Not sure, really. All we really know is that Draco pulled his wand on Goyle." Another pause. "Probably said something Malfoy didn't like." She supplied lamely.

Hermione said nothing, frowning visibly.

Was that why he had stormed into their dorm last night and riled her up?

Hermione had been rather eager to change the topic of conversation. Luna was quick to provide that, deciding to tell them about garden gnomes and the benefits of their bites. By the end of the discussion, Nora had a very strange - yet amused - look on her face.

* * *

"Hermione!" The half-giant exclaimed with pleasant surprise when he opened his door and saw the muggle-born witch on the other side of it. "What a pleasant surprise, this is! Come in, come in!"

"Good to see you, Hagrid." Hermione said with a beaming smile, suddenly feeling right at home as the large man ushered her into his hut. She took a seat at the large round table he had. Fang was seated on one of the benches, drooling onto the hardwood. Hermione grimaced a little, but realized that she had not felt this calm in weeks. "How have you been? I feel like it's been ages!"

"I've been alrigh', I suppose. Yer jus' in time, too! I was makin' meself some tea." He growled out with a bright grin on his face, making Hermione laugh softly.

"You're always making tea, Hagrid." She said, still chuckling softly.

"Well, there's not much left t'do on a Saturday, now, is there?" He retorted, eliciting another laugh from Hermione in response. He set out two mugs - one a little larger than the other, which Hermione assumed was his own - on the table. He poured the tea into the mugs and slid the smaller one to Hermione. "Got some milk 'n sugar t'go with it. Hold on." He assured her, making her smile a mile as he shuffled about his tiny hut.

Once everything was settled, Hermione prepped her tea and Hagrid sank into the bench before the table, next to Fang, who finally found some peace and laid himself down next to his familiar. Hermione took a sip of her tea and felt instantly content.

"So. Tell me everythin'. How're yer classes? And Harry? Ron?" Hagrid coaxed, motioning for her to go off and soothe his interests.

"Harry's fine. He loves his work at the Ministry so far, even though he's just in training. He sends his best wishes, by the way. He asked me specifically to tell you that." Hagrid beamed down at her in response. "Ron... well, he's trying to get into training with Harry, so it appears he's a little behind, but I think he'll be okay."

"Ron'll do jus' fine. He's got friends like you 'n Harry." Hagrid assured her. Each word the half-giant spoke was peppering her with a sense of nostalgic peace that Hermione didn't even know she was longing for. She felt instantly elated; comforted. It was so nice to know that _some things_ around here didn't change. "And what about school?"

"School is alright. I'm doing well." She replied, still smiling.

"Well, of course ye are, Hermione. Can't think of a single spell that ye can't do." She recalled him saying that in second year, when she had been sobbing about Malfoy. This time just kept getting better and better. "And yer classmates? They're treatin' ye alright?"

Hermione frowned a little, knowing precisely what Hagrid was hinting at. He was there when McGonagall had made her announcement. He could probably tell by her paler pallor that she was more stressed than usual.

"My classmates are... fine. There's this one girl from Slytherin, Lenora Fawley-"

Hagrid cut her off.

"That's _Fawley's_ daughter I saw? Oh dear." He said, shaking his head. Hermione gave him a curious look.

"What about her?" She prodded.

"Well. Lenora's father, Victor Fawley, was a Death Eater, y'know." Hagrid began. "Did a right foul amount o'werk fer You-Know-Who. But word has it, at one point, Victor disobeyed You-Know-Who 'n as a result, his wife was killed. Right in front'a his daughter. Not a pretty sight." Hermione frowned, watching Hagrid with growing concern as the pieces began falling into place. "Anyway, Fawley went int' hidin' after that. You-Know-Who sent a couple'a Snatchers his way, bu' that didn't end pretty. So now I guess 'is daughter's been transferred here. Guess Olympe didn't much care t'have a Death Eater's daughter in 'er school. Former 'r not."

He frowned at the mention of Madame Maxime.

"That... actually makes a lot of sense now." Hagrid shot Hermione a curious look. "Well, Nora's... she's quiet. Hardly speaks a word. She barely eats. She looks very... fragile and unhealthy. Nobody in Slytherin house really gives her a break, either. She's being constantly berated."

"Well, I can't say I'm surprised at tha'." Hagrid replied. "But she's right lucky t'have good friends like you lookin' out fer 'er, I'll say." Hermione smiled again at that. "An' what about Malfoy? I know about yer situation." She frowned, hung her head, playing with the handle of her teacup. "'Ow bad is it?"

She admitted instant defeat with a sigh. "Working with Malfoy is going to be more complicated than I think I can handle, though." Her shoulders slumped. "I know it's only for a year, but... there are so many issues to work through, and we can't even manage civility. I just don't know how we're going to be Heads if we can't sit in the same room without wanting to rip into each other."

Hagrid was silent for a moment. "Oh, come now, Hermione." He finally began, reaching out to take her hand. She offered her own willingly, not caring how pathetic she appeared in seeking her friend's comfort. "Don't be so hard on yerself. Th'Malfoy family's always had a stick up their backsides, 'n there ain't much ye can do about that."

"But Hagrid..." She sighed again dejectedly. "I... I thought the war was over, but... when I'm around him, it's like it never ended to begin with. He's just so... _bigoted_."

"I know, I know... but _yer_ not." He said, motioning to her for emphasis. "Hermione... ye could be the ripest, juiciest pumpkin in th'patch. There's always gonna be someone who hates pumpkins. Malfoy's one of 'em. People like Malfoy... they're gonna talk 'bout ye 'til th'day y'die." Hagrid patted her hand to soothe her. "But it ain't about what they call ye. It's 'bout what ye answer to. Eh?"

What she answered to. Of course. She had noticed it once before, when Malfoy didn't get the reaction he originally wanted from her, he threw a fit. _It's about what you answer to_. She wouldn't answer. Not next time, nor the time after that. Let him wallow in the war. She would leave him in her dust to pick up the pieces.

Hermione's shoulders squared and she nodded firmly. Hagrid patted her hand a few more times and chuckled lightly before releasing her and returning to his tea.

"Thank you, Hagrid." She said after a moment; honesty shimmering in her eyes. "I... I really needed this."

"Well, if that's th'case, maybe we should make this a regular visit. Once a week, y'come 'n 'ave tea with me." He offered. "'N bring that Fawley girl too, if she's bein' given too much trouble."

Hermione nodded almost too fervently. "That sounds _wonderful_."


	7. Og Lengra

A/N: Thank you all for your reviews, follows, and favorites. I do appreciate it.

Also. I completely forgot a couple of faces for certain characters (both canon and original). I will recount the list here, so nothing gets lost.

Morrigan: Claire Danes; best portrayal of appearance seen in _Stardust_.  
Theodore Nott: Dylan O'Brien; best portrayal of personality seen in _Teen Wolf_.  
Victor Fawley: Keanu Reeves; best portrayal of appearance seen in _John Wick_.  
Narcissa Malfoy: Julie Benz; no media reference apart from Tumblr. (Picked because Narcissa in the books is depicted with strictly blonde hair, not blonde and black, like in the films.)  
Lenora Fawley: Felice Fawn; no media reference apart from Tumblr.

* * *

 _ **OG LENGRA  
**_ ** _FURTHER DOWN_**

Three days. Three days until her birthday, and not a single word from her friends.

Hermione's longing for them was reaching its pinnacle. She had worked their letters and her own in her mind countless times. She had folded and unfolded Ron's letter gingerly, even though it was crinkled and bruised from her. She had tried to find the deeper meaning in his words, yet found none. Still, she burned for him. She decided within the second week of school that she did not want this sort of distance. She wanted to be able to touch him, to kiss him, to hear any sort of sweet whispers he'd pepper into her ears.

Whatever it was that she wanted, it was _definitely_ more than this awkwardness that lingered around them every time they were near one another.

The Heads dorm was addictively silent. Hermione found herself wandering into the common area when breakfast had finished that fine Sunday morning. The walls felt as though they had expanded and taken a deep breath, welcoming her with a calm that washed over her. Like relaxing in a hot bath, she mused as she crossed the threshold to make herself some tea. Tea, music, and studies. That was on her immaculate agenda for today. She found every sliver of her being to be buzzing with excitement. Nobody was here, except herself and the authors of her long-awaited books. Malfoy had not returned yet and Hermione felt all the more elated... until the bad recollections of his name sank in.

 _Malfoy_...

She felt a sickened twisting in her stomach from the memory of him. There was a scent of his that perpetuated through every crevice near the bathroom. Hermione only remembered heartbreaking moments from it. It made her heart quiver. The way the light of the flames licked his face only seemed to make him colder in her eyes; a shuddering mess of torn morals. She had never wanted to wrap someone up in the warm blanket of an embrace so badly. It was like wanting to hug a cactus. Hermione had been a sliver away from taking the pain of him, seeping it into herself and bleeding it all through her pores for him.

For _Malfoy_.

Had he not hissed at her to leave; had he not shoved her away; had she not felt just as exposed as him... she probably would have held him.

 _Tightly_.

The realization alone made a shudder creep along her spine.

This could have possibly been the _one moment_ where she absolutely loathed being a Gryffindor.

She never thought she would be so happy to be alone. After spending half of the morning mediating a heated argument between Luna and Ginny - where one side thought only of flames and the other wandered to happier things - Hermione was already exhausted, for the most part, and planned to park her rear right on the roomy couch in front of the fire. Her assignments would be tended to and the piano in the shaded corner would gain some of her more passionate affections. She would relax in a hot bath later and go to sleep without a care in the world.

Maybe that last part was more wishful thinking.

Soon enough, she was doing just that. The flames from the big fire warmed the room. Hermione was bundled up, wearing a long-sleeved, pale green shirt with dark grey pajama bottoms, bundled up in a blanket with her nose in a book. Celtic mythology, which was becoming all the more interesting by the moment. She was browsing in the section of goddesses, feeling a connection - an empowering one - to each proud woman she passed.

 **Caireen** : protective mother-goddess; patron of children _._

 **Macha** : the _wild goddess_ who battles against injustice to women and children.

 **Morrigan**...

Hermione froze, lifting herself up from the comfortable spot she was in, instantly intrigued.

 _A terrifying cow goddess associated with war, birth and death. Queen of phantoms, demons, shape-shifters, and witches._

The muggle-born witch tilted her head, deciding to look deeper into the explanation.

 _Often celebrated during the festival of Samhain, due to her association with death. Morrigan was the crow who would appear on the battlefield, and would return later to pick flesh from the bones of the deceased._

Unable to resist the temptation of conversation, Hermione pushed herself up from her seat and went towards the portrait with bright-eyed eagerness. The portrait swung open on instinct; the blonde woman looking particularly bored as she roved her fingers over her tarot cards. When Hermione did not pass by her, Morrigan's head lifted from her desk in curiosity, eyeing Hermione with piercing blue steel.

"Yes?" Morrigan prompted. Hermione shifted.

"You were named after the Celtic goddess, weren't you? Morrigan?" The bookworm asked finally.

Morrigan's eyebrow raised in mild confusion, but she peered to the book tucked almost protectively into Hermione's arms. A small smirk twitched upon her lips.

"Been doing your homework, I see." A small half-chuckle erupted from the blonde woman in the portrait. She slowly lifted herself from her desk of tarot cards, moving around it with a strange grace that intrigued Hermione greatly. "My parents were firm believers in Celtic mythology. Many of our people were. In such times, my parents - along with majority of the magical community - thought that the harder we believed, the safer we would be. All superstition, I suppose."

"In such times?" Hermione echoed, confusion apparent on her face.

"I was born in 1547. Such times, indeed-"

"You were alive during the Witch Hunts." The Gryffindor concluded, gaining little more than a nod of confirmation from Morrigan in response. "The hunters... did they...?" Hermione trailed off with the sentence, almost afraid to ask.

"Of course they did." Morrigan replied. After a moment, she shrugged almost nonchalantly, drawing her blue eyes up towards the ceiling of her portrait. "Through no fault of my own."

"What happened?" Granger prompted.

The blonde woman in the portrait was quiet for a time, gathering her bearings. Hermione found herself holding her breath, aching with curiosity. All this time, she had wondered where the name had come from, and why it felt so important to her. The Morrigan in the portrait had not appeared battle-ready, but she held an air of contagious confidence that infected Hermione every time she gazed upon the painting.

"You must understand, times were very, _very_ different. Our kind was being hunted and we needed to hide. It was, of course, encouraged to marry within magical bloodlines to avoid detection." Morrigan explained. "Back then, pureblood prejudices were... more or less... completely validated. The things the muggles were doing to us... it was horrible. If their executions were not terrible enough to watch, the things they did to torture us were even worse. Our women suffered the most..."

"Marrying within the wizarding bloodlines would have ensured that you would stay alive, then." Hermione added.

Morrigan nodded again in response.

"I couldn't really help myself, though. My family was one of the few who waged war against the muggles on behalf of our people. Then I met Killian... he was just wonderful. Strong. Brave. Romantic." The blonde woman in the portrait smiled to herself, appearing as though she were daydreaming for a moment. "But of course, he discovered what I was, and I found my sense of judgment impaired. I told him. I _showed_ him-"

"He turned you in?"

Morrigan nodded gravely.

"Yes, he did."

The silence was deafening between the two. Hermione visibly frowned.

"All things begin somewhere, Miss Granger. Some of them, for more convincing reasons than none. The prejudice of purebloods evolved over the centuries, turning into something awful. Somehow, certain witches and wizards became just as horrific as their oppressors. However, in my day, it was considered a tactic of survival to avoid marrying muggles. A completely sensible tactic, at that." Morrigan sighed, running her fingers over the edge of her desk. "Still... I would be lying if I said I did not miss Killian with all of my heart."

Hermione's eyes raised from her socks and she met Morrigan's face once more. "You _can't_ be serious. He betrayed you." She breathed in disbelief. "How could you _possibly_ love someone like that?"

"Well, how could Hogwarts allow muggle-born witches or wizards to attend it, with all the things muggles did to us so long ago? Salazar Slytherin held a grudge, you know. Look where that got him." Morrigan countered. Hermione fell silent. "We have magic in our veins, Miss Granger, but that does not make us more than human. It just makes us... humans with magic in our veins. That's all." The portrait's countenance appeared completely objective, folding her hands over each other in front of her stomach. "Killian was doing what he believed was right. I cannot say I blame him, no matter how much it hurts me."

The muggle-born searched for something better to say; something to diffuse the tension.

"I can see why you're named after her now." Hermione said, though her teeth were clenched. Morrigan smiled softly.

Eventually, that smile faded.

"You know..." The blonde began, inching closer to the forefront of the portrait. Hermione found herself leaning in, as though she were about to be told some valuable secret. "I was reading something interesting in the cards." She motioned to the tarots on her desk. Hermione stiffened and thinned her lips in disagreement, but said nothing. "I thought I might ignore it - they can be terribly overdramatic at times, but perhaps now is the best time to say something; to warn you."

"Warn me? About what, might I ask." Hermione tilted her head, folding her arms over the book, now pressed against her chest. She was defensive. Reading cards seemed about as useful as believing everything Rita Skeeter wrote in _The Daily Prophet_.

"I'm not sure... but they're telling me that there's a shadow cast somewhere in these halls; one that could undo everything this place has accomplished." She paused, a little unsure of herself. "Normally, I would not put such stock in these things, but the cards have all been reading the same. Something is coming. It will be so poisonous to these walls, if it all comes to fruition."

" _If_." Hermione echoed, scoffing. "Well, that's certainly... vague... and not at all helpful."

Morrigan shrugged gracefully, but helplessly. "The cards say what they will." Hermione scrunched her nose, doing her best to avoid going on her traditional rant about the ridiculousness of divination. The blonde sighed. "Whether what they predict is true or false, I would suggest you be on your guard. There's nothing wrong with a little vigilance."

Hermione's shoulders stiffened at the comment. _Constant vigilance_ , Mad-Eye once said. Stowing away a deep breath in her lungs, the Gryffindor released it and nodded in Morrigan's direction.

"Thank you, then." She said. Morrigan nodded, and Hermione went back into the Heads dorm. The portrait closed behind her.

Suddenly, she felt more anxious than before. Her stomach twisted. She decided to make more tea to calm her nerves.

* * *

A party was a party. This one was no different. Theo had informed Draco in passing during breakfast, right before Draco had taken it upon himself to stow away in the library with his textbooks as his only companions. Sunday was a work day, and he enjoyed maintaining that routine. His fingers were stained with ink by the time he was finished, but he washed off the evidence of his hard work and was now massaging out the cramp in his right hand as he approached the dungeons. He had managed to keep all his thoughts completely compartmentalized throughout the day, distracting himself from the events of the former night with his work.

Now that walking, watching and breathing were his sole priorities, his mind was beginning to wander. That was never a good sign. He was starting to be reminded of creamy strawberries and spiral-peeled clementines and it all just made him feel sick. Ashamed, both of himself and his lack of performance. The night had been intended to make _her_ cry, not him.

Draco felt rage boiling in his gut. He needed to keep his mind occupied.

He still smelled the remnants of ink on his fingertips. Some parts of his nails still had stains under them and he slowed his steps as he tried to pick it out; distracted.

 _They stem from the bones of us.  
_ _Cold flesh under the marrows.  
_ _All I see is dirt_.

He grimaced, knowing he would not remember those lines later. He tried repeating them in his mind as he approached the entrance for the Slytherin dorms. Murmuring the password, he ran his fingers through his hair as he was permitted entry.

The Slytherins cheered and jeered all the same when he made his appearance, sweeping his eyes over them with his traditional, hereditary smirk. They conglomerated in pairs; bodies. He could pick out Theo in a second, mostly because he was waving rather enthusiastically next to a very bored Blaise. Draco practically beelined for them, grinning rather smugly as Theo offered him a bottle of their booze of choice: whiskey. Just plain whiskey. Anything that was easy to get their hands on, they would take. Typical teenage prose, Draco assumed with a careless, invisible shrug.

"Almost didn't think you'd show." Theo said, watching as Draco tossed himself into the far corner of the roomy couch, glancing over to them.

"What, and miss all _this_?" Draco motioned, haphazard and disinterested, around the room.

"It is pretty majestic, yes." Theo agreed, ignoring Draco's sarcasm blatantly.

"Theo, you think a _rock_ is majestic." Blaise retorted, stroking his chin as he observed the crowd. Pansy and Daphne were drinking and chatting amongst themselves nearer to the entrance to the girls' dorm, occasionally peering over at Draco through half-lidded, inebriated eyes. Daphne was judgmental and Pansy was a little wanton.

Draco ignored them both.

"It was a talking rock, and it was _one time_." Theo retorted, holding up his index finger for emphasis. Deciding to change the topic, he turned his attention back to Draco, patting his mate in the arm to keep his undivided attention. "So. Draco. Quidditch tryouts are happening on Thursday."

Draco observed Theodore for a moment before shrugging. "And?"

"And... you should try out." Theo hooked an arm around Blaise's shoulders. On account of Blaise's pointed glare, Theo instantly withdrew his arm back to his side. He shifted uncomfortably and adjusted the messy, dark hair on his head only by running his fingers through it and making it almost stand straight up. "It'd be like ol' times. Plus, you know, Blaise is gonna be captaining the team, and we both know how low _his_ standards are."

"Hey." Blaise interjected. Theo gave him his dark-skinned friend instant, disbelieving look. "I'm entirely impartial. Don't start."

"Oh, of course. That's why you were considering Tracey Davis for chaser this year. How could I forget." Theo drawled out, rolling his eyes dramatically. Draco passed the whiskey bottle back to Theo, then chuckled when Theo's comment earned him a hard jab to the ribs with Blaise's elbow mid-gulp. Once the coughing had subsided, Theo turned his attention back to the youngest Malfoy. "So? You joining in?"

Draco paused, considering the perks. He then nodded curtly. "It's worth a shot."

"You're not gonna be a Seeker, though." Blaise said immediately, glancing over to Draco just in time to catch the offended look on his face. "No offense, mate, but you were rubbish for the position. You ought to try out for Chaser. Maybe Keeper."

"Now I'm gonna try out for Seeker just to prove you wrong, Zabini." Draco seethed, causing Blaise to chuckle in amusement.

"Don't be surprised if your name's not on the list in the end, mate." He retorted.

Draco's expression and mood instantly turned sour. He glanced over to Theo. "Smack him for me."

Theo obliged with an infectious confidence, swatting Blaise upside the head. Both light-skinned boys chuckled and nodded to each other. The moment Theo looked back, Blaise had made a jumpy move; as though he were about to lunge. Theo panicked and fell off the couch to avoid the premeditated attack. Blaise merely chuckled. Draco had snorted and laughed a little louder, thoroughly amused by his friend's acute paranoia.

It took Malfoy a moment to realize that he had not laughed like that in almost two years.

"I told you to _stop doing that_!" Theo exclaimed, working his way back up to sit on the couch.

As the evening went on, the boys chatted of familiar things; things that Draco almost thought did not exist anymore. Quidditch, music, gossip; good things. Draco found himself slipping back into what felt like old, comfortable skin. The Slytherin common room felt like an estranged, frozen friend, slowly thawing out on account of the warm bodies packed in its depths. The dungeons of Hogwarts had a heart again.

Then it shriveled up with a shriek.

"How dare you, you _bitch_!"

There was a small, almost inaudible _thump_ as Lenora Fawley was shoved to the floor by Pansy, who now had a dark stain on her top. Pansy was infuriated; her pale cheeks adopting a light pink in her rage. She towered over the crumpled, mute girl with clenched fists and a spilled drink. Lenora was peering up at Parkinson with an ominous glower that could have chilled any Slytherin, though her chest was rising and falling at a rapid pace, indicative of panic.

Draco and Blaise were the first to stand. Theo followed when he couldn't see the spectacle properly.

Lenora had murmured something soft and supple that sounded like _sorry_ , but even Draco (who was now closing in on the scene next to Blaise) couldn't catch it in time.

"Not as sorry as you will be when I throttle you, Fawley!" Pansy had made to lunge at the girl, but Daphne wrapped an arm around the crook of Parkinson's elbow to stop her. She was restrained.

"Oh, shove it, Parkinson, the girl made a mistake. She apologized, get over it." Astoria Greengrass, radiant as ever, had stooped to her knees beside Lenora, beginning to help the girl up. When she felt Fawley trembling, she did not rush the girl. Instead, Astoria tucked Lenora's thin frame into her side and rubbed her shoulders. Daphne looked blankly down at her sister; not understanding.

"Shut it, Astoria, you're not a part of this-" Pansy began. Astoria cut her off.

"And Fawley is? You've done nothing but harass this girl ever since she got here. She's done nothing to you." The younger Greengrass countered.

Pansy cast pointed daggers to the Prefect and the Head Boy for retaliation. "Blaise. Draco. Aren't you going to do something about this?"

Zabini and Malfoy exchanged glances.

Now was the time to make decisions. Either stand with your friends, or do the right thing. Draco was rubbish at picking, so he rescinded this time. The drink had gotten to him and he had nothing to give.

Blaise took his silence as leeway and stepped up to the mat, interrupting anything that Malfoy would - or could - have said.

"Pansy... go to your dorm. Sleep it off." Blaise instructed, ignoring the horror on Parkinson's face.

"Blaise!" She exclaimed, wrenching herself free of Daphne's grip. "You're going to side with this - this _blood traitor_ over what just happened?"

"If it means stopping your shrill voice from disrupting our evening, yes. I am. Now, go sleep it off. I won't say it again."

His tone was calm. It was _always_ so eerily calm. Draco could see why it unnerved Pansy to no end. He could also see the pug-faced girl seeking revenge sometime soon. It was in the way she huffed and stalked off with Daphne trailing behind her, seeking to comfort her embarrassed friend. Draco frowned visibly, hating this miscalculation in judgment. It made him falter and fail. It made him feel like he wasn't a leader.

"She's gonna make you pay for that, you know." Draco mumbled.

Blaise left a lingering look on Lenora, watching as Astoria helped her to her feet. He turned away from the two girls and carved a path to sit back on the couch. Draco and Theo joined him almost reluctantly after exchanging weary glances.

"Pansy's been getting out of line a lot, though." Nott said as he sank into the cushions between the other two boys. "Seems she thinks that because Daphne is a Prefect, she can get away with pretty much anything."

"This was a good opportunity to put an end to such nonsense." Blaise said finally, staring off into the leather of the empty couch across from the one the three boys occupied. Back to stroking the space just under his lower lip in contemplation.

Malfoy, Nott, and Zabini grew quiet after that. The whole room did. Eventually, people were clearing out and heading to bed. The evening had been shattered.

Astoria and Lenora remained tucked in a secluded corner of the room, speaking gently to each other. Lenora had produced a very small rubber ball that she was bouncing on the floor and catching with great, graceful ease. Astoria watched her. Occasionally, Lenora would catch it without looking, nodding or shaking her head at something Astoria had said or asked her.

Soon enough, there was nobody left except the five.

"Well. You're all boring and I'm fun." Theo said matter-of-factly, pushing himself up from the couch. "I'm off to bed. Early start tomorrow anyway." He pointed an index finger to Draco. "Tryouts are on Friday. _Don't_ forget."

"Thursday." Blaise corrected. Theo froze, swooning a little on the spot as he attempted to process the information.

He blinked at Blaise. "Yeah, that's what I said."

With that, he stalked off, bumping into something now and then in his drunken stupor.

"I better go make sure he doesn't break anything." Blaise admitted finally. Draco nodded; expressionless.

"Yeah, good luck with that." Draco scoffed out dryly. "Night, Blaise."

"Night."

* * *

He had left the Slytherin common room almost instantly after Blaise. Nothing more to see, he supposed. Plus, Astoria and Lenora were beginning to set up blankets on the common room couches, intent on keeping away from the drama that Pansy would inflict upon them, should they have been brave enough to return to the girls' dormitory. The less confrontation on a Sunday night, the better.

Draco had said nothing to either of them, though he was sorely reminded of his lack of sexual activity when Astoria had bent at the waist to fluff her pillow. He tried not to think about it as he hurried to vacate the premises. He was too exhausted to wallow in a dry spell of depression, and now he was beginning the slow, half-drunken trek towards his ridiculously high dormitory.

He was somewhat grateful for the cardio. It was a decent start to prepare for Quidditch tryouts on Thursday, though he hated how short the notice was. Theodore had a knack for taking his time with information. Draco casually dubbed him as a Professional Procrastinator at times. He likely assumed that he was being helpful, but all this little fact did was add another ten pounds of pressure onto Draco's shoulders. Of course, this sort of pressure was a welcomed burden, compared to the others. Still. Would it have killed the fool to be early for once?

Breathless by the time he had reached the top of the spiral staircase, Draco took a brief stint to regather his breath before settling his attention on Morrigan's portrait.

" _Butterbeer_." He said, and the portrait - with a strange smile - swung open. He ignored it.

The common room was too _warm_ , which was the first thing he had noticed, but had not really registered.

Draco was unbuttoning his black jacket, shrugging it off his shoulders, and gathering it in a vertical fold when he _heard it_. A strange tune. A _familiar_ tune. All emanating gently, almost invisibly, from behind the bathroom door.

 _Kiss me out of the bearded barley. Nightly, beside the green, green_ _grass_.

It made him pause; falter. His grey eyes suddenly glittering with mild curiosity as they landed on the entrance to the other world and became instantly fixated and dazed. The tone of the voice itself was soft. Calm and peaceful. Endearing. Not fit for bellowing marksmanship or powerful bursts from the diaphragm, but fit for lullabies. It was a sweet tone; a _siren's_ tone. One that swayed him towards the edge of a ship, teetering feebly on a raging sea. He knew this voice. He had _dreamt_ this voice.

... Hadn't he?

 _Swing, swing. Swing the spinning step. You wear those shoes and I will wear that dress..._

Deja vu really had become monstrous. The song sounded so familiar. He recalled vaguely trying to hum it in the shower some time ago. Off-key and horrible, because he could barely remember the actual sound for the life of him. But here it was.

He watched as the bathroom door opened and suddenly, he was at a loss. Draco had sauntered into the common room, anticipating that Granger would be in bed. Or, if she were awake, she would be wrapped from head to toe in her Hogwarts robes (he hardly saw her in anything else), overdoing her homework, and he could get a few licks in before passing out. She would be alone, vulnerable, asleep or awake. She would be covered in her robes and a blanket and countless books and parchments. Not to mention, her wild, unruly curtains of curls.

 _Most importantly_ , she would be _clothed_.

But now, she exited, humming to herself. She was completely unaware, wandering aimlessly with a large cloud of creamy strawberries trailing behind her that slapped Draco in the face like a rogue bludger. Her cheeks were flush with a pink tinge of complete satiation. Toffee curls were soaked and drawn back from her face by thin fingers. Beads of bathwater trickled over her freckle-dusted nose, her chin, her neck, her clavicle... everywhere it could reach.

She was _still_ humming, even while drawing one half of her natty, midnight blue robe around her naked body. He saw the very _slight_ curve of a damp, bare, smooth hip. The shadow of a line just above, drawing low, highlighting the side of her left breast.

His spine went instantly rigid. This required an intense moment of registration. Draco wasn't even certain why he couldn't tear his eyes away. Because of the shock? Because of the realization that this was the first time in half a year that he'd seen a woman half-naked? Because of the temptation he suddenly felt bubbling in his abdomen?

Granger was tugging the robe closed, briefly glancing behind her to see the lamps dying inside of the bathroom as she reached up to tuck a wet strand of hair behind her ear. There was a steep **V** formed by the midnight blue robe, located alluringly at the center of her chest. Flesh flashing in the firelight. She strung the lace loosely around her waist and tied it in a bow, like a present for Christmas.

Just one tug and she would have been completely undone.

Draco had no idea what to do. Frozen in place. His brain was no longer attached to his mouth. His eyes were wide with a mixture of panic, shock, disgust, and undeniable interest. Her innate humming ceased. Silence was suddenly like nails on a chalkboard. Draco gulped inaudibly, but hard. His fists clenched so tightly that his nails were creating half-moon marks in his palms. Maybe even cutting into them. He found it difficult to decide if he was practicing restraint, or trying to withhold vomit.

He couldn't just stand there. He needed to do something; say something.

"Granger."

 _Good show_.

Her eyes could not have gone wider in that moment. Hermione squeaked in shock and fright. Her hands gathered the fabric of the robe, slamming shut any parts that had potentially been open. She almost shrank back into the bathroom as the weight of the whole situation began to dawn on her. Wide, chocolate eyes flickered from Draco's shoes, straight to the top of his head, as though a part of her refused to believe that he had seen _any_ precious fraction of her.

Nope. He wasn't there. He didn't exist.

This was _not_ happening.

"Malfoy!" Hermione meant for her voice to come off as more authoritative, but it was weak and mortified. She found the kink in her shoulder that she had just gotten rid of returning. Aching. Panic made her voice shrill. She kept tugging at her bathrobe, frozen like a deer in headlights, half-tempted to just run from the common area and never, ever leave her room. Ever. "What the _hell_ are you doing?"

Now that he was not distracted by flesh, he zeroed in on a fresh target. His glare could not have been more poignant, instantly making Hermione feel terribly small. He snapped right back at her. "What am _I_ doing? What are _you_ doing? You just go around your own home half-naked, do you?"

"How _dare_ you, I do _not_!" She countered, her eyes flashing around the room, like there were hidden faces in the cracks of this place laughing at her. She was instantly unsure of her words. But she tried. Feebly. "I... I didn't think you would be back tonight." The second part of her argument sounded so much weaker than she intended.

"I sleep here!"

"It's almost one in the morning!" Hermione countered, suddenly desperate to alleviate the situation.

"Oh, please." Draco countered, drawing his watch up to his eyes. He made a frown when he realized she was right. He shook his head with a growl. "That's not the point, Granger." He gestured almost violently to her, practically raving. "The point is: you will _not_ let this happen again. I don't care if I stumble in at the arse-crack of dawn. I refuse to be terrified out of my own common room, just because the little _mudblood_ decides that she wants to wash away the dirt!" He was practically foaming at the mouth; pale and sickly. His voice was almost irritably high in pitch.

When Hermione said nothing, he waved his hands through the air, gave up, and stormed up his steps and into his room. She was left - trembling, confused, and hurt in the entryway to the bathroom. Eventually, with slow and tentative steps, she hung her head and wandered back to her bedroom, whimpering _ferret_ before disappearing behind the door.

Her door had closed gently, where his slammed shut.

He was frantic, leaning against the wall of his dorm with his jacket now strewn carelessly onto the floor. He felt as though he had run the distance from the Great Hall to Morrigan's portrait a thousand times over. Every time he blinked, there was an image of a peaceful Granger with a faint blush and a half-open robe there to greet him. He whimpered; far more terrified of the lack of revulsion he felt when the image replayed in his mind. Even her look of astonishment was endearing. Her mouth fell open, her eyes were wide and her hands groped at her own body to regain some form of modesty. Her cheeks flushed a deep red in the most passionate mixture of fury and fear.

She looked bloody _tantalizing_ , which made him shudder and rub his temples. Neither filthy, nor disgusting. She looked damp. Flush. Ready.

He needed to _stop_ thinking about this.

With a groan, he worked himself out of his shirt and stripped down, opting to slumber naked, thanks to the heat in this bloody place. He blamed it on the dying fire in the common room.

Draco spent the night half-awake, trying to keep himself from imagining drenched Granger doing up her robe in reverse.


	8. Say Something

_**SAY SOMETHING**_

It was two days until her birthday.

It was a Monday.

She used to _love_ Mondays.

Once upon a time, to many others, the weekends meant freedom and Hogsmeade trips with friends, while Hermione counted down the hours to the first day of a fresh school week. On those Mondays, her eyes were bright and well-rested. Knowledge thrummed under her skin from her 'light' readings over the miniature holidays and her hand would shoot straight into the air, silently mouthing the answer under her breath until she was picked to speak up. Mondays were the things she prayed for; her sanctuaries. They were the welcoming gates to a haven entirely her own, where a seeker of knowledge excelled and dominated. She was appreciated on Mondays; vigorous and well-learned.

Mondays were now the bane of her entire existence.

Mondays meant classes spent sitting awkwardly next to McLaggen, who occasionally attempted striking up a conversation with her that never lasted very long. Mondays meant rushing to a Heads meeting and sitting in a room for approximately an hour with a minimum of three people who ardently disliked her. Mondays also marked the beginning of another week without her best friends. There was no Ronald falling asleep to her left, and no Harry barely paying getting through the class on sheer dumb luck to her right. She was lost in a sea of unfamiliarities that made her heart ache. Her hand still rose, but it had lost its habitual, succulent fervor. Her cheeks were paler. Her eyes, unrested.

Of course, _this_ particular Monday was rife with more embarrassing themes. This Monday morning was the morning following the _horrific_ events of the night just before, where she had been stupid enough to exit the bathroom, not fully clothed, and was forced to endure the high-pitched rants of a half-sober Draco Malfoy.

Her eyes shut tightly at the recollection. Her cheeks were hot.

Hermione thanked Merlin that Draco had not looked at her once throughout breakfast.

Luckily, she was drawn from her thoughts when an onslaught of owls entered the room, swooping above the students and screeching loudly in happiness that their trips were over. Hermione searched through the crowd of large birds, trying to find Hedwig in the mass. She found nothing; nobody. Her heart sank a little, but almost jumped out of her chest when another owl had landed before her with two letters in its clutches.

Confused, Hermione reached for them.

One was addressed to _The Head Boy & Girl, _which sounded sickeningly like the author of the letter was addressing a married couple.

The second one was for Ginny.

Hermione frowned.

"What is it?" Ginny asked, taking the letter addressed to her.

"Likely Slughorn's invitations." Granger responded, opening her own letter to confirm her thesis. One invitation for herself, and another for Malfoy. She immediately chided herself for not telling him about Slughorn's verbal invitation. Now she needed to find a way to keep herself civil for all of five seconds, just to put the physical invitation in his hands.

"Great." Ginny murmured. "Supper with Slughorn this Friday." The Weasley girl cast her curious gaze over to Hermione's invitation. Her lips thinned disapprovingly. "This will certainly be... _interesting_."

"If by _interesting_ , you mean _a complete nightmare_ , I find myself inclined to agree." Granger countered. Ginny half-smiled solemnly.

* * *

Hermione was forced into her usual spot, praying for solitude next to Cormac, who let his eyes wander over her freely now and then. Apparently the boy's libido had not been humbled in the aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts. Feeling more exposed than usual, she would shift and blush whenever she felt his stare on her. He likely had no idea that the red in her cheeks had transpired for all reasons other than his eyes being on her. Hermione found herself incredibly distractible and flustered, barely clinging to the words Slughorn was slinging at them with such a cheery and encouraging tone. She could have been completely ablaze in the mass and nobody would have noticed, apart from Cormac.

Draco appeared to be having an equal amount of difficulty. While taking notes from the board (with the occasional footnote, whenever Slughorn added any addendum verbally), he would occasionally drop off in thought and grimace to himself. Granger was not far enough out of his vicinity to keep her horrifying scent to herself. He concluded rather briskly that he would never eat another strawberry again in his life. He was suffocating. Everywhere he went, every class he had, and every time he entered the common room of the Heads dorm, there was a shroud of her there to greet him. He couldn't even sit on the couch in front of a roaring fire without smelling her remnants on the blanket draped loosely around the back rest.

He could not escape her, and it was becoming dangerous. She was everywhere. Stuck in the fine fibres of the upholstery. Seeping through the cracks of his mind like a cancerous tumor. Draco could not close his eyes without seeing flesh.

The irony, again, was not lost on him. The hag head of Gryffindor house wanted unity, and all Draco saw the moment Granger stepped out of that bathroom was unity in its most _primitive_ form.

Malfoy almost had not noticed that Slughorn dismissed the class until he had gotten a whiff of Pansy's heavy perfume. It overpowered Granger's scent, and he breathed a sigh of frustrated relief with a crinkled nose and a look of disdain etched onto his face. He put his head down and had begun gathering his books and stationary, filing them slowly back into his bag. He was taking his time. Eager to put as much distance between himself and temptation as possible.

"Malfoy."

Draco already hated that tone. Indignant. Proud. All the prowess of a piss-ant Gryffindor. He turned to lock steel onto McLaggen's resting pompous expression, which - at this point - appeared to be habitual for the lad. Draco glared instinctively in response.

"We ought to start on the Liquid Luck potion we've been assigned to. I found us a spot where we can brew..." McLaggen trailed off, letting his eyes linger on Granger's back, straining to see her rear through her billowing robes. No such luck, yet Cormac still adopted a smirk, as though he knew distinctly through his memory alone, how Granger looked outside of the robes anyway.

Tracing back to his sixth year, Draco recalled crashing into Slughorn's party unannounced, where he had caught a glimpse of Granger in her peach-toned dress. The reminder that McLaggen had attended the very same party made him sneer. He ignored the inherent churning in his stomach. It sickened him to think that anybody else would find the bushy bookworm attractive, and it irked him even more to think that he now had mental proof that they were right to think so. It took the blonde a moment to realize that he was crinkling his spare bits of parchment in a tight fist. He began straightening out the pieces haphazardly.

McLaggen did not notice.

"Tick-tock, McLaggen." Draco prompted in a menacing tone.

"Right." Cormac smirked a little more to himself, clearly inebriated by the idea of a good chase. "Tomorrow night, then. Eight o'clock. Astronomy Tower. Ought to give us a good start." Draco's stomach clenched at the idea, but he compartmentalized and maintained his composure.

"Whatever." Draco replied, shoving the spare parchment into his bag. He closed the lid and hooked the strap over his shoulder. When he turned back to McLaggen, Cormac appeared taken back, as though shocked to see the Malfoy standing so tall. The venom in the Slytherin's tone did not go amiss, either. "Don't be late."

"Mister Malfoy!" Slughorn's voice caught his attention just as he was approaching the door. As McLaggen practically shoved past Draco, he turned, narrowly avoiding a boyish collision of shoulders with his potions partner to rest his eyes on his professor. Slughorn smiled to Cormac in a small, enthusiastic farewell, then waved Draco back into the classroom and Draco nodded curtly, making his way over to the older man. "So sorry to keep you, but I wanted to ensure that you got my invitation for the supper party on Friday night?"

Draco paused; confused. "Erm... no, sir, I haven't."

"Ah. Well, perhaps Miss Granger has not had the time..." Slughorn murmured, appearing somewhat disappointed.

Malfoy blinked, unsure he had heard the professor correctly. "Sir?"

"Oh, I asked her to extend the invitation to you some time ago. I only just sent the actual invitations out this morning, of course, but I was unsure if you would be coming, so I simply sent your invitation to Miss Granger, instead." Slughorn began, hobbling his way back towards his desk. He leaned his rear against it and turned his attention back to the blonde pupil. "I had meant to catch up with you a great deal sooner. Because of your mother, of course. I taught the whole Black family, you see. Your mother and her sisters were very gifted witches..." He trailed off a little, looking distantly horrified. "Albeit with very different paths in life."

Draco frowned, yet his curiosity had not entirely been satisfied. "You taught my mother." He echoed, prompting the professor.

"Oh, yes!" Slughorn appeared instantly pleased. "She was a very talented young woman, you know. Very fascinated with herbology and potions. She got on quite well with Professor Sprout and myself." He paused. "Tell me, does she still hold an interest in these subjects?"

Malfoy paused, suddenly protective of his mother, including her fascinations. It had been some time since anybody had inquired about his family. At least, not without attaching scathing sarcasm or Death Eater comments to the air. He cleared his throat, tightening the grip of his fingers on the strap of his bag until he felt the blood rushing from them.

"She does, sir." He began, shifting a little in discomfort. "She loves... plants. Flowers, mostly." A brief pause. "We have a greenhouse on the property."

"Excellent!" Slughorn clapped his hands together, laughing a little. Draco merely blinked in response. "It's so nice to see when my students continue their hobbies and passions, even long after they leave here. Your aunt Andromeda was the very same, you know. Fascinated with plants and flowers. I exchange letters with her often, as well. Just last week, she sent me a rather lovely muggle flower as a celebration for my return to Hogwarts. I believe it was called a _stargazer lily_. Quite a lovely little plant, I assure you."

 _Stargazer lily; commonly associated with the wish of wealth and prosperity to the recipient_.

Draco cleared his throat at his own thoughts, nodding stiffly.

"Anyway. I tend to hold the occasional supper party, to which certain students may be invited. Should you find yourself available, I would be very pleased if you'd make an appearance." Slughorn said finally, his tone far more encouraging.

Malfoy's head lifted and his eyes carried a tone of surprise with them. Still, Slughorn appeared to be the type of fellow who did not enjoy dwelling on unhappy things like war, death, or bloodshed. Draco took the professor's jolly disposition as a sign to keep the conversation steered perfectly clear of all things melancholy and upsetting.

"I'd be delighted, sir." He managed finally, though his tone sounded flatter than intended. As off-putting as Professor Slughorn could be at times, there were benefits to staying on his good side. Draco was no fool. He knew that connecting himself with the potions professor could very well bring better days upon the Malfoy name.

"Splendid! I look very forward to your presence, Mister Malfoy. Just check in with Miss Granger and she'll have your written invitation. Now, off to class with you." With an incredibly excited aura, Slughorn shooed Draco through the door. The blonde abandoned the Potions classroom with a blank, yet ardently confused expression on his face, which quickly morphed into something closely related to hatred.

He was late for his next class.

* * *

Hours spent in the library after classes had dragged on and were lost in translation. When her chocolate eyes had stole their gaze away from the parchment and to the watch on her wrist, she had to hurry and gather her things. The hour hand ticked like a minute's when she was lost in her studies. Sometimes, it felt like her entire life was lived through books. She had forgotten what adventure tasted like. She felt a pang of guilt when she realized she missed that familiar rush of adrenaline when it came down to two choices: you or them.

By the time supper had been served in the Great Hall, Hermione's stomach was growling. Her steps were frantic and her books were smooshed to her chest.

There were some students still filtering into the Hall as she approached it. Her steps slowed to a near full-stop when she realized that Draco was one of them. She almost tripped over her own feet. A small clap of her sole must have alerted him, because his grey, icy gaze instantly snapped to her. His eyes narrowed to the blades of daggers and his fingers made a 'come hither' motion in her direction. At first, Hermione had glanced around her immediate area, under the impression (or the desperate hope) that he was signaling to someone else. There was no escape when the name 'Granger' fled his lips; poised like poison on his tongue.

She cringed and made her way over to him. He led her to a more secluded position just to the right of the large double-doors.

 _Away from witnesses_. Hermione thought to herself, practically shuddering.

"Slughorn's dinner party." Straight to the point. He met her eyes only for a moment before looking away. At first, Hermione presumed that it was to avoid having her see right through him, but her cheeks burned hot when his eyes swooped briskly over her form, which was buried in her robes. Draco looked colder now, stiffening his spine. His arms folded over his chest; defensive. Shielding his vital organs. "Apparently I was supposed to get my invitation through _you_ some time ago."

Hermione sucked in a breath through her nose, making her nostrils flare. He could have sworn he saw steam spurting from her ears. Still, in spite of her irritation, her cheeks were flushed a deep red, much like the night before. It made Draco shift in his stance and steal a glance behind him, as though conversing with the fellow Head would be something suspicious to onlookers.

Hermione had half a mind to slip away during this brief stint of paranoia, but the moment his eyes locked upon her again, she was imprisoned.

"Clearly, you know _now_. I hardly see the problem." She replied, clutching her books a little tighter to her chest, as though they were a new form of impenetrable armor. Every shift of his eyes made her flesh tingle painfully, like she was breaching a deathly high fever. Heat crawling creepily. Creeping at a crawling pace. Hermione could hardly stand it. She felt like his eyes could slice through everything she had on her person; like all he saw was the bareness beneath loose, black fabric.

For the most part, she was right, which was why his glare deepened. Her school uniform looked about as frumpy as that bloody bathrobe, with the waist lace done up in a bow, like a Christmas present. A natty, oversized, bunched-up, ugly Christmas present.

"The _problem_ , Granger, is that I found out last-minute... through Slughorn himself, no less." He stepped forward, appearing fearless. "That frightened of socializing with me, are you?"

Hermione scoffed, growing vehement, though she stepped back a bit.

"Hardly. Even you must agree that there was never exactly a proper moment for me to break the news. All of our conversations end with insults and slamming doors, apart from the little act of civility we put on for the Prefects during meetings." She said all of this incredibly fast. Draco sneered at this, hating that she was right. She was gaining the higher ground and it showed in the way her shoulders straightened; in the way her chin raised up in defiance of his overbearing presence. Instantly, he chose to feel insulted, crinkling his nose at her boldness. "Should I have informed you of Slughorn's invitation when we were _fighting_ , or when we were _fighting_?" She prompted, adopting her usual tone of vulgar confidence.

"We _always_ fight, Granger." He countered, clenching his fists in attempts to maintain his temper. He kept his voice in a low hiss, which felt far more venomous than the high-pitched yelling he was sprouting the night before. "And either way, you should have told me. Any time is better than last-minute."

He was surprised to find that her shoulders slumped in defeat. A breath released through her nose. Frustration leaked a deeper red into her cheeks. He could see her jaw clenching, knowing that her brain must have been racing a mile a minute, trying to come up with some viable excuse that would miraculously make her right. Her books slid a little further down her chest and her fingers coiled around the bottom corners of them, pressing them into her stomach as she relinquished her Gryffindor pride.

"You..." She almost slung out a last-minute insult, but thought against it. Adding fuel to the fire when she was this starved, this wanton, and this miserable, would get her nowhere. Her knuckles were sheer white with tension from how hard she was gripping her books. "You're right." She submitted hatefully, causing Draco to adopt a look of suspicion. She kept her gaze down and murmured something begrudging that sounded an awful lot like " _I'm sorry_ ," but he barely caught it.

He refused to make her repeat it, lest this journey switch them onto a train track of awkward civility.

"Whatever. Cough it up." He held out his hand with a morose, indignant expression, causing her eyes to flare up at him, glittering with almost disgusted surprise. "The invitation." A pause. She blinked up at him with wide, all-encompassing eyes. He sneered at the revelation, suddenly feeling the urge to vomit. " _Now_."

Hermione recovered quickly, shocking Draco as she shoved the books she was holding into his chest. He half-stumbled, catching them while he watched her rummage through her book bag. Cheeks bright red. She was muttering something in dull, inaudible whispers, likely cursing him to the ends of the earth, which he felt a strange satisfaction in. Once she had produced the envelope, she opened it.

She practically ripped his invitation from it, brandishing it out towards him like it was the sword of Gryffindor.

Her expression was fire. His was tempered steel. With a glare, his hands moved. The books slid from his grasp and dropped carelessly to the floor. Draco abruptly snatched the invitation from her and tucked it into the deep pockets of his robes.

"Thank you." He said, though he never meant a word of it. His voice was chalk full of dry disdain. After kicking one book out of Hermione's reach, he made his way into the Great Hall, leaving the bookworm to clean up the mess with an even deeper hatred in her eyes.

 _Good_.

He had been a hairsbreadth away from enacting a rather vicious fantasy.

In times like this, severe loathing would keep things in perfect order.

* * *

At supper, Hermione had been her usual, mousy self. Occasionally, she would engage in conversation with the girls grouped around her, finding solace in their idle chatter. They lived, they spoke of boys, they made her miss Ron, and they made her convey a genuine veil of happiness. She enjoyed the simplicity of them. They represented something romanticized, yet strong.

She wound up walking alongside Luna and Ginny to the Prefect meeting, which had the very same awkward air that it had the week before. They were situated in a room on the fifth floor, which was specifically designated for these gatherings. It was a simple room, fitted with a generous amount of chairs and a blackboard, just in case notes needed to be made by the Heads.

There was only one window, which looked out over the Black Lake. Nobody seemed to be interested in looking through it. In fact, almost no-one in the room seemed interested in anything. The war left an air of palpable tension; a shroud hovering over the shoulders of every survivor who had a place in the chaos. It had nothing to do with petty house prejudices, but the thrill and adrenaline had died, and the aftermath appeared ultimately pointless.

Perhaps it was the approaching chill in the air that brought down the mood. Hard.

Luna now sat to Hermione's left, and Draco was obligated to sit to her right. They were the figureheads, after all. Next to Luna, an obedient and silent Roger sat, casually leaning back in his seat. Ginny was settled on Roger's right, and was occasionally giving Hermione a strange look whenever she adjusted her robes and felt naked. Draco was currently avoiding eye contact with her, which the muggle-born was somewhat grateful for. Beside Ginny was Dean, beside Dean was Ernie, and beside Ernie was Susan.

Only the Hufflepuffs (and Luna) appeared pleased to be in this room.

Slightly separate from the circle created by most of the Prefects, Blaise and Daphne sat, though they were not entirely beside one another. Blaise appeared unamused, which Hermione now took as his usual demeanor, and Daphne occasionally glared at who she considered to be her _lessers_.

"Alright." Hermione began, clearing her throat. _Now_ she felt Draco's eyes on her. She tucked a wild curl behind her ear. "Erm... hi." Nobody returned her greeting. She could almost _feel_ Draco rolling his eyes. "First things first: the patrolling schedules. I wanted to ask if anybody has issues with the one Draco and I posted this week?"

Almost instantly, Daphne raised her hand.

"Out with it, Greengrass." Draco prompted, though Hermione had already motioned for the girl to continue. Both Heads ignored the mishap in exchange.

"I won't be able to make the patrol I have scheduled for this Sunday. I have an assignment due and that's the only night I can finish it." Daphne explained.

"What assignment?" Draco asked.

"Divination." She replied finally, shifting.

Malfoy scoffed. Hermione hated that she was inclined to agree with his voiceless expression.

"Fine." The muggle-born said finally, glancing around the room. "Is anybody capable of covering for Daphne on Sunday, then?"

The room was quiet. Nobody spoke up. Hermione's lips thinned in disapproval; tightly wound. Wounded.

 _So much for unity_.

"I'll do it." The voice was as high as a hymn, and all eyes turned upon Luna Lovegood, who bore her usual, whimsical facade. Even Blaise's attention was fixed on her. If he was shocked, he disguised it well with an almost eery calm.

"Great." Hermione managed, breaking the silence. "Any other issues?"

Only silence answered her.

"Moving on, then."

* * *

Hermione's birthday was tomorrow.

Tuesday was a little more forgiving. Hermione had gone through the whole day with little struggle. There was a moment where she had accidentally bumped into Malfoy's back on her way out of Potions class, but he simply wound up stiffening, glaring at her, and stalking off. He said nothing about watching where she was going, so Hermione took that as a good sign. The remainder of the day was spent on her classes and asking Professor McGonagall over lunch to use the second floor classroom later that evening.

She almost missed dinner again, though.

"Alright." Hermione began, searching through the instructions for Felix Felicis with wild, eager eyes. "We need to add the Ashwinder egg first, then add horseradish and _then_ we turn on the heat."

Nora nodded slowly, prepping the ingredients. She moved slowly, as though she had all the time in the world to complete the task. Hermione appreciated this, as the potion itself was damn near impossible to perfect. The silence was soft between the two.

"Thanks for doing this." The muggle-born glanced briefly over to the pierced Slytherin. "I know it's late."

Nora paused after adding the Ashwinder egg. Her large, soul-sucking eyes drifted lazily to rest upon Hermione, who appeared far worse-for-wear than herself.

"I don't sleep much." Nora offered this as a comfort, but whether Hermione took it as such or not was unclear.

The quiet was less soothing now.

Over the last few weeks, Hermione and Nora shared only a small handful of moments. Most of the time, Fawley was consumed by Luna, who showed her an uncanny amount of gentility, encouragement, and care. Granger found it difficult to carry on a conversation with a girl who was practically mute, save for a sentence that consisted of a maximum of five words every half-hour. Still, Hermione could not deny the swell of pity she felt every time she saw the product of loss and war in her presence.

"I hate that you always have to go back to the Slytherin dorms, Nora." The Gryffindor said finally, keeping her head down as she scribbled a few notes on a spare bit of parchment. "The way they treat you is so foul."

"I'm a Slytherin." She countered simply.

"Well, you certainly don't seem like one." Hermione murmured, not exactly thinking about the words flowing from her mouth. "In my experience, Slytherins are vile, cruel, shallow, and bigoted."

Her quill stopped scratching on the parchment, and that was when Hermione realized just how quiet it was in the abandoned classroom. Her back straightened and she turned to face Fawley, who was now staring at her with wide eyes. She could have been confused, but for the most part, she was a blank slate. She looked as though she anticipated more of Granger's rant; an explanation.

"Sorry..." The Gryffindor offered finally, feeling guilty, though she was unsure why.

Nora answered with a shrug. "Not all Slytherins are evil." She said finally. It sounded more like a statement than an argument.

"Could have fooled me." Hermione countered. Again, not thinking.

Fawley looked back at her after adding the horseradish. "You think they are?"

Hermione paused, considering her response.

"Perhaps _evil_ is too strong a word. Although, evil people have come from Slytherin-"

"And from Gryffindor." Nora replied.

The muggle-born froze as she realized that she had forgotten about the elements Lenora had been exposed to, prior to her arrival at Hogwarts. Victor Fawley was a former Death Eater, and had been a favorite of Voldemort's, before he had rebelled. It occurred to Hermione just then that Victor likely knew the ones closest to You-Know-Who. He knew Peter Pettigrew. He likely knew Professor Quirrell, who had been in Ravenclaw, and who sold half his soul for nothing more than a turban and - what Hermione assumed was - the most awkward and invasive roommate on the planet.

"I suppose." Hermione admitted in surrender, biting back the sudden need to defend her house with the pride of a lioness.

Lenora seemed pleased enough to get back to work, igniting a small flame under the cauldron. Granger was thankful. The silence was still a little tense, but they powered through. There was a moment where the potion needed to simmer. That was when Nora had settled her rear against the desk they were hovered over, turning her head to observe the Gryffindor with obscure indifference.

"Quidditch." She said finally in her soft tone. Hermione's head lifted and her eyebrows clinched together, unsure if she had heard the girl correctly.

"Quidditch?" The Gryffindor asked. "What about it?"

"I want to try out." Lenora clarified. Hermione's head tilted, still confused. "For the team."

"You want to try out..." Granger's head swiveled slowly back to its original position, "for the Slytherin Quidditch team?"

Lenora nodded once.

"Oh." Hermione murmured. Her large brown eyes raked over Lenora's slim frame. She had been concerned that Fawley would snap like a twig against the slightest breeze. She simply could not see the Slytherin whipping through the air at breakneck speeds, or taking on a bludger. Even Harry had his word cut out for him when it came to the game. "Are you... certain? It's a terribly dangerous sport, Lenora. You could really get hurt."

"I've been hurt before." Nora replied, shrugging nonchalantly.

Hermione cringed at the idea. She had opened her mouth to protest; to try and convince Fawley otherwise, but she was interrupted.

"Will you come?" The Slytherin asked, pushing herself from the desk.

It was then that Hermione had noticed a small quiver in the girl's voice. The realization began to dawn on her. Lenora had made up her mind to try out for the team already, and there was no talking her out of it. The reason she had brought this to Hermione's attention was because she wanted friends there to support her in the decision she had made.

"I..." Hermione began, still unsure of herself. She closed her mouth firmly, surrendering to Nora's will. "When are the tryouts?"

"Thursday." Fawley replied.

"I'll... I'll let Luna and Ginny know." Granger said finally, giving Nora a gentle smile. "We'll be there." Confidence became more firm in her voice. "Definitely."

Hermione almost did not hear the soft " _thank you_ " that slipped from the Slytherin's tongue. The girls worked through the rest of the evening, exchanging very few words.

The silence was soft as satin by the time they parted to go to bed.

* * *

Hermione's birthday was today.

The morning began with her being late for class. However, right up until lunchtime, she managed to maintain focus, raised her hand when she knew the answer, and went about many things the common world around her might consider terribly boring. However, to Hermione Granger, every obstacle presented was an opportunity to prove herself, and she tackled it well.

Draco had noticed her grinding determination. Her spine straightened with its usual fervor and her large brown eyes would light up with every answer she knew. If the Professor took some time to pick her, she would mouth it to herself, as though working through the best route involved in presenting her knowledge to the class. When she was plucked from the few whose hands were raised, she rapped out the response with the ease of a well-oiled machine. Occasionally, if Draco squinted the right way and tilted his head, he could envision her as an encyclopedia with arms and legs and very unruly hair.

In spite of her routine posture and poise, there was something different today. He noticed that she beheld a rather unnatural glow of excitement. She would look briefly to her watch every ten minutes, which was a rare occurrence. Normally, she was too engrossed in note-taking and being a star pupil that she never glanced at her watch once. Today, she appeared very eager to leave, and once their second class was finished, she had practically raced from the room, beating the crowd by a solid mile. She had disappeared around the corner at the end of the hallway by the time Malfoy had exited the classroom.

Draco had concluded on his way to the Great Hall for lunch that he spent far too much time taking notice of Granger's habits, but he was happily distracted when he saw Theodore's enthusiastic waving, calling him over to the Slytherin table. Blaise was already hiding half of his face, pretending that Theo was a complete stranger, and still one worthy of being embarrassed about.

"You know I'm not blind, right?" Draco began, sliding onto the bench beside Blaise. Theo frowned a little. "Or deaf."

"I was gonna head to the pitch after supper." Theo pressed on, blatantly ignoring Draco's comment. "You wanna come? We could get in some practice time for Thursday."

The more time he could spend outside of the Heads dorm, the better. He was practically desperate for the Christmas holidays to arrive, even with the inherent awkwardness and abuse his family often exchanged.

Draco considered the offer for a moment, then nodded only once in confirmation. "Sounds alright. I need to go see Madame Hooch after lunch anyway and get my name on that list for tryouts."

"I already let her know you'd be trying out." Blaise said, then he snickered slightly in amusement. "She rolled her eyes when I mentioned that you were going for Seeker again."

Draco scowled.

"Yeah, well, she did the same thing when you told her to put my name down, too." Theo retorted, snorting.

"Because she hates you." Blaise countered, his amusement growing into a smirk on his dark face. Pleased that the hot seat was passed onto his goofy friend, Malfoy's eyes glittered with humor as he glanced between the boys, prepared for a very comical exchange.

"You say it's hate. I say it's like a girl pulling a boy's hair on the playground." Nott smirked with a mouthful of a sandwich.

"You think that Madame Hooch is stricter with you than anyone else because she _likes_ you?" Draco asked, now grinning wickedly, ready to roar with laughter at the notion.

"Sure. Who doesn't like me?" Theo said, chewing loudly and raising his arms outward as if presenting himself to the world.

"Me." Blaise said instantly, stroking his chin with his elbow on the table.

"You'll come around soon enough." Theo replied with a cheekful of his sandwich, leaning his own elbows on the table as he rocked very slightly from side to side. His head swiveled. "I got moves."

"Will they lead you towards the nearest exit?" Zabini asked, genuinely interested.

"Sure. The nearest exit _into_ your heart."

Draco almost choked on his pumpkin juice. Theo became distracted by the event, pointed, and laughed at Malfoy's good misfortune. Even Blaise's shoulders were shaking in amusement while he clapped Draco on the back, trying to get his friend's lungs back in working order again. Draco was trying to decide whether he was laughing or fighting for air. Perhaps both.

There was a screech overhead that caught their attention. Majority of the students mingling in the Great Hall watched as Harry Potter's owl, Hedwig, had swooped in, flying just below the enchanted ceiling. Draco was calming down from his fit when he turned to watch as well.

In the owl's grasp was a rather heavy-looking package, which dropped onto the table in front of Granger. She looked shocked, reaching for the two letters bound to the package with trembling fingers. Hedwig perched next to her as she handed one of the letters off to the Weasley girl, then peeled open her own.

Her eyes were large and glittering with unpronounced tears as she read through it. A small smile of longing touched the corners of her lips. She set the letter aside and began unwrapping the package with a mixture of happiness and disappointment on her face. Draco's eyes narrowed as it revealed books. _Of course_ , he thought to himself, turning slowly back to his comrades, _she would get books_.

It took him a moment to realize precisely what this meant.

 _'Be sure to act surprised when you get them for your birthday.'_

"What day is it today?" He asked, glancing briefly between Theo and Blaise.

"The nineteenth. Why?" Theo asked.

Draco glanced briefly back to the spot where Granger was sitting. She was giving a dejected sigh as the Weaselette had reached out to place a comforting hand upon her shoulder. Malfoy's eyebrows knit together in slight confusion, but he understood the situation when Granger had hurriedly gathered her things - her bag, her new books, her letter, and _nothing else_ \- and rushed from the Great Hall with tears in her eyes.

The conclusion was not difficult to draw. Potter's owl had only produced one package of books - the ones Potter promised in his letter - and nothing else, which was precisely what Weasel-Bee's distant letter had ensured.

Today was Granger's birthday, and her own boyfriend had forgotten it.

That was... _fantastic_. If there was anything Draco Malfoy loved in this world, it was watching trouble manifest in the Trio's paradise.

"No reason." He muttered, feeling a small twinge of what he had convinced himself was humor. He smirked dryly and returned to his conversation, clearing his throat. His back had straightened with a newfound sense of pride and glory. "So. How's life in the Slytherin dorms?"

Nott shrugged. "Can't complain. Pansy's been more conscious of the toes she's stepping on ever since that confrontation with Fawley." Blaise grunted a little in agreement. "Although, Goyle's been getting a little out of line."

"His day will come." Zabini added with an air of foreboding.

Draco's gaze shifted between his two friends. He almost wanted to ask, but thought against it.

Draco could understand their frustrations, having almost gone overboard himself when Goyle had mentioned the Malfoys being blood traitors. After the stint they had in the Room of Requirement - which still made his gut clench - Draco felt that the oaf's anger towards him was almost entirely justified. Malfoy had shown weakness in that room. Not that he would ever admit it. The respect had been lost, and now Goyle was trying to regain a semblance of power for himself.

The boys carried on with conversations on alternate topics for the remainder of their lunch, which Draco was grateful for.

He had a warm and fuzzy feeling settling in his stomach when he heard later on through the grapevine that Granger had not showed up to the rest of her classes.

Only the best had the audacious and uncanny ability to find happiness in misery, particularly the misery that occurred at someone else's expense.


	9. My Skin

_**MY SKIN**_

Draco had not seen Granger at dinner. He found this to be a thoroughly pleasing sight. Not only would he be completely rid of her presence in the Great Hall, but every sliver of his person was _praying_ that by the time he returned from practice with Theo, she would be in bed. Her scent would haunt him no longer, Granger would be in complete shambles, and he would finally get one night of peace.

Although, he had to admit that Granger's turmoil was a little concerning, but only to the effect of him actually having to endure her depressed sobs radiating from her bedroom. Her door was irritatingly thin. Draco was thankful to be going over plans with Theo for their planned practice, since the hiss of sobs through Granger's door waiting for him in the Heads dorm was something he desperately wanted to avoid. As much as he could relish her suffering from a distance, it was different when his precious sleep was being disturbed by it.

Malfoy grinned to himself when he had taken notice of the Weasley girl, who had been scribbling on parchment furiously, with a red tinge in her cheeks, for the past half-hour. She had barely touched the food on her plate and she did not seem to care. A part of him wanted desperately to believe that her older brother would be getting a howler; a potent, redheaded rage that was sure to embarrass him in front of all his Auror friends in training. Draco could already see the scrunched up look of displeasure on his face when the enchanted parchment screamed and foamed; raved and swore. A part of him desperately hoped that Weasel-Bee's embarrassment could be witnessed by the Minister himself.

It was a long shot, but the mental image was very pleasing.

"You alright with meeting at the Common Room?" Theo asked, pulling Draco from his fantasies. At first, Malfoy gave him a strange look of confusion, not fully understanding. Theo made a rather extravagant flail of his hands from the wrist joints, holding his palms out to Draco, silently pleading dramatically for _some_ attention to be paid to the conversation. "For practice?"

"Merlin, no! It's way too far. We'll meet on the pitch," Draco replied in a haughty tone almost instantly.

"I meant to ask about that, actually," Theo began as he leaned in, as though he was about to receive some seriously juicy gossip. "Where is the Heads dorm, anyway? You always come late to breakfast and leave fifteen minutes before supper ends. Is it really that far?"

"It's _inconveniently placed_ in one of the tallest towers of the bloody school, and it's hardly worth the travel. The place is as shoddy as a homeless shelter. One breeze and I fear for my personal safety," Draco spat out, suddenly becoming rather cross in having to discuss his living arrangements. Theo ignored Draco's apparent annoyance, as usual.

"Draco, you told me that the Tower of Pisa was a safety hazard," Nott retorted with a scoff.

Blaise snorted. "That's because Draco can't see beauty. He thinks Veelas look homely."

Draco sneered at them both, almost simultaneously. "Please. As if Blaise is any different."

Theo chuckled openly, but Blaise interjected with a pointed index finger. "That's not true. I find many things beautiful."

"Just not as beautiful as yourself, though," Theo retorted.

Draco snickered openly at Zabini's expense, rather relieved that the topic of discussion had been changed over from his own world views.

They were right, though. There was absolutely nothing that Draco found beautiful, not even flowers, like his mother or his dreadful aunt.

He did not romanticize, because there was nothing _to_ romanticize on this earth. The world was ugly, horrendous, disgusting, and anything that could possibly be deemed beautiful was little more than an illusion of promise that people concocted in order to make every bleak day appear hopeful. Warrior poets were little more than sadists purging their psychotic world views, validating themselves with florid prose. Anything muggle-made - he could only assume through limited experience - was undesirable, at best. If a woman looked beautiful in a ballgown, it was likely that it was the best she would ever look, and the morrow would birth a harsh reality.

Nothing in this world was beautiful, spiritual, nor elysian.

This was the underworld, and the heavenly would only arrive in death.

 _If that._

Life was little more than a concoction of terrible experiences, padded around the edges by surreal eyes of the storm - the desirable; the proverbial _calm_. These brief reprieves were the moments people thought were good; the things that made life worth living. Draco deemed himself one of the few who were not stupid enough to describe the world around him as anything more than it was: wet, grimy, and covered in rocks, shit, dirt, and even dirtier people. Everything was filth, and he was a bloke just trying to keep his patch of nothing as clean as possible.

This was precisely why Malfoy found a sickening sense of bliss in seeing something like the Golden Trio ripping itself apart. What could be construed as the most reliable, familial dynamic had its issues. Nothing was perfect, and it was foolish to hope it would be, just like it was foolish for Granger to believe that Weasel-Bee had a single romantic, unselfish, or sentimental bone in his body. He was a boy who grew up among several other poorly-dressed siblings, and who never had anything for himself except hand-me-downs. No person, place, or thing, had ever truly been his to cherish. Naturally, he wouldn't know how to handle something that genuinely belonged to him with any form of care or grace.

Ronald Weasley would treat her the very same way he treated every other thing in his possession: used, durable, and inevitably forgotten.

Granger should have been able to recognize a hopeless case when she saw one.

 _There was no manual for passion_.

"Hardly the point. Unlike Draco here, who has impeccable, yet impossible standards, I have a _very_ keen eye for beauty. I've said it before-"

"Oh bloody hell, don't start on the _sublime_ again, Blaise," Theo said as he covered his hands with his face. "I've told you a thousand times over, there is no girl who fits this description. You read _one_ long, almost indecipherable essay from _one_ muggle and suddenly, the sublime is the key. I'm officially restricting you to magical authors only-"

"It is ultimately unwise to presume that I have not done my research, Nott. Magical authors have supported Edmund Burke's theory-"

" _And_ refuted it," Theo countered.

Blaise grimaced. "That's irrelevant."

"What the bloody hell are you two on about?" Draco asked finally, now staring between the two, his face twisted in both confusion and revulsion. Partially from the mention of a muggle author, and partially because his preoccupied mind had only jumped in mid-conversation. He took another bite of his food, chewed, and swallowed. "It's a _muggle_ theory. How can you give that _any_ validation?"

"Blaise seems to be under the impression, after _hours of extensive research_ ," Theo contracted a rather poignant glare from Blaise just then, "that this... _theory_ of the sublime also applies to women and intimate relationships."

"Correction. It applies to the _perfect_ woman and the _perfect_ intimate relationship. In Burke's work, he insists that the _sublime_ is something that both fascinates and terrifies. Something incredibly beautiful, but so overwhelming that it becomes simultaneously threatening and awe-inspiring. He combines fear and pleasure convincingly. 'Lo and behold, the _perfect_ woman."

The three went painfully quiet when Blaise finished his explanation.

"Well... that..." Draco paused, trying to find the words, "the biggest load of rubbish I've ever heard."

Theo snorted. Blaise waved his hand and gave a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders.

"This might be why we're so poor with the ladies." Nott said finally, holding up his hands in surrender to the inevitable facts. "Just saying."

"Speak for yourself." Zabini replied. His gaze gradually drifted over to Malfoy, assessing the way his face paled at the attention called to him by Blaise and Theo. "Or maybe yourself and _Draco_."

Draco scowled again. His cheeks turned a very faint shade of pink.

"It does seem like a poor dry spell you've got goin' on there, mate." Theo admitted, his tone a little more sober. Blaise tried very hard to quiet the chuckling behind his hand. Theo merely took this as blatant encouragement. "Keep up this chastity rally of yours and Blaise and I might pitch in for a belt."

"Sod off." Malfoy retorted, scoffing at them. Blaise smirked at Theo's comment, silently forgiving him for shooting down his _sublime_ theory. "It's only the first month of school, anyway." He shifted in his spot, a little uncomfortable with the route the conversation was taking. "You'd think having my own dorm would make it all simpler, but the truth is: getting my rocks off was a lot easier in the dungeons."

"Well, that's just depressing." Nott said, shaking his head in disappointment.

* * *

Supper inevitably came to a close. Fifteen minutes prior to the end, Draco had excused himself so that he could begin his long trek up to the seventh floor tower to change into more suitable Quidditch gear. Every step along the way caused an inch worth of dread to fill him gradually, beginning at the tips of his toes. When he had finally reached Morrigan's portrait, he was a little breathless and far more aware of the fact that there was likely a tear-soaked Granger on the other side of this barricade.

" _Butterbeer_ ," he murmured with less enthusiasm than intended. Morrigan observed him with indifference before she succumbed wordlessly to his impatience, allowing her elegant portrait to swing inward with a graceful wave of her hand and a respectful bow of her head. He climbed the few remaining steps into the common room of the Heads' tower with ease, momentarily wondering why such a lovely portrait was secluded in one of the tallest towers of the castle. Perhaps it was due to the proverbial _specialness_ of this dorm, yet still found himself kissing his teeth at the prospect.

At least this trek could supplement his cardio for practice. Draco could just dive right into tactics instead of doing roundabouts or suicide dives with the others. He made a mental note to try taking his time gathering his things, so Blaise and Theo could get their warm-ups out of the way prior to his arrival.

He had prepared himself for quiet sobs to be emanating from Granger's room, but when he centered himself in the common area, only silence was there to greet him. Draco stiffened in response to the void he was faced with, unsure if this meant something good or bad. Either way, he felt hairs standing on the back of his neck. Trigger-warning. Something had shifted in the air here - something he was painfully unaware of. Early onset paranoia began flooding him, but he kept himself composed.

For a moment, his gaze traversed the area and noted the light state of shambles it had been left in. Mostly, the pieces of parchment littering the coffee table that sat before the dead fireplace.

Almost instantly, Draco had pieced the scene together, stooping down at the waist very slightly to pick up a shredded piece of the parchment. He observed the half-torn sentence and instantly recalled the dead-aired letter from Weasley. Granger had ripped the letter to bits, it seemed, which satisfied Malfoy more than he cared to admit. Perhaps it was because of the idea that the Weasel would finally be getting an earful from the Mudblood. As the ripped piece of parchment slipped listlessly from his fingers and to the floor, he was still deciding on which party to root for, or to root for nothing except their mutual self-destruction. There was a storm brewing on the Golden Trio's front; one that would make or break them.

Bloody hell, he hoped it broke them.

Among the shredded pieces of paper littering the coffee table was a small book. Humble and few in page count. Paperback. Draco reached down, idly brushing away the useless, torn scraps of parchment covering the title.

 _Dylan Thomas' Collected Poems_.

The spine was cracked; split open on a particular page. Draco lifted it and only glanced briefly at one of the works, skimming one of the poems briefly before scoffing and tossing the book carelessly back onto the table. A few ribbons of the broken parchment fluttered from the impact, swirling through the air around his feet. He didn't bother to watch them.

No wonder the _M_ _udblood_ lost her bloody marbles.

Turning away carelessly from the tattered remains of Weasel's all-but-subtle rejection of Granger's pining, he began his venture up the small set of stairs leading to his bedroom, murmuring the password before stepping inside. He changed briskly, deciding to pack a spare change of clothing for when practice was finished.

He wasted less time than planned in his room before he ventured back out and promptly descended the steps back into the common area.

Draco had been aiming for the exit when something red had caught his eye on the floor. Just beyond the common area, where the bathroom door stood. He tilted his head as he approached the small mess. Blood on the pale door frame. Just a smudge, likely from her small hand. Malfoy approached, but dared not touch it. Red or not, he felt it was still contaminated, and adopted a disgusted expression in spite of the seriousness of the situation.

One brief glance into the washroom and Draco instantly noted the source of the injury Granger had likely sustained.

Within the confines of the room, the mirror just above the sink had been shattered. Draco assumed it was from a brave sucker punch that Granger had catapulted into her own reflection, intent on banishing the remnants of whatever guilt she felt for the mask she wore.

Something within the guarded depths of his mind beckoned him within the confines of the bathroom, drawing him towards the shattered mirror. The scene glitched, flashing between the suffocating confines of this lavatory and the dusty, spacious, first-floor bathroom belonging to Moaning Myrtle.

Draco walked slowly into the catastrophe, almost in a daze as the memories began to resurface. The scene before him shifting between past and present. He blinked a few times. Hard.

Broken mirror.

 _ **Broken sinks.**_

Blood on the tiles.

 _ **Rust on the pipes.**_

Blank-faced, Draco absently reached out towards the sink. His pale, long fingers gently grasped the edges of a piece of the mirror, lifting it idly to observe closely. His head tilted in melancholy nostalgia, though he never frowned. He merely grew a shade paler than usual the moment he saw one of his steel grey eyes reflecting in the shard.

 _"Don't... don't... tell me what's wrong... I can help you."_

 _Floating spectre. Large glasses, fogging with condensation from her building tears. She looked down on him with a strangely comforting mixture of sympathy and understanding. He had felt more leveled in that place than anywhere else, at the time._

 _"No-one can help me."_

Malfoy inhaled deeply, almost meticulously relaxing the shard of the mirror right back on the edge of the sink, precisely where he had found it.

Order in chaos.

He laid memories to rest with a soft _clink_ , but they never truly left him. Something about this fractured mirror - this fragmented scenario - was so painfully familiar to him. It beckoned a slight crack in his defenses, which caused him to look down at his empty hand, feeling as though he should still have that broken shard in his palm. He should have forced himself to endure his own reflection a little longer, but found no courage to do so.

He knew why she had broken this mirror.

Draco abandoned the bathroom with a clenched jaw, bag in hand with his change of clothes for post-Quidditch comfort. He did not register his actions, only caved into himself like a collapsing black hole, succumbing to a mindless deed as he shuffled about the common room briskly and efficiently.

Mindless and detestably considerate. It made him white-knuckle the grip on his bag as he prepared himself for something atrociously inevitable.

She would pay for this gentleness eventually.

Just not today.

Hermione wrapped the gauze around her knuckles, aware of Malfoy's presence in the common area, but unwilling to face him. She could barely hear him shuffling around over the sounds of her absentminded sniffles. Her eyes were red and her hand was bleeding. She refused to take a trip to the hospital wing. She had half a mind to refuse breathing at all. She tucked the gauze into place and looked down at the blood stains on her jeans, which she had depressingly tried to avoid on her way into her bedroom. Hermione hiccuped slightly, feeling the urge to cry coming on again.

Two crisp knocks sounded on her door and Granger froze, peering at the oak barricade with bloodshot, blank eyes. Blinking a few times, the knock never sounded again as she tried to wait out the notice of someone at the door. When nothing but silence greeted her, Hermione gradually lifted herself from the bed and crossed over the threshold of her room, lightly curling her good hand over the doorknob. She turned it slow, cringing from the squeak it let out. Eventually, the entrance to her bedroom was jerked open.

She saw nothing on the other side and heard only the tell-tale closing of Morrigan's portrait in the distance.

Her reddened eyes flashed warily down the hallway and she had been about to close her door when something orange caught her attention on the floor in front of her.

Hermione's gaze dropped to the space just before her feet, where a clementine rested, along with a small slip of parchment with scribbled, yet elegant handwriting on it. Fragile in her motions, she reached down to pick up the items, rolling the clementine in her small, injured hand, enduring the ache from her gashed knuckles as she brought the parchment up to read.

 _Do not go gentle into that good night.  
_ _Rage, rage against the dying of the light_.

She did not smile, but her blank expression appeared to soften just a fraction.

Hermione gently shut the door, taking the slip of parchment and the clementine possessively into her sanctuary as she sniffled and began wiping away her endless tears.

* * *

Draco had taken a moment to prepare himself before he had stepped onto the pitch, remembering only when he had seen towers crumbling amongst one another. Wood blazing under flames. House colors turning to nothing but ashes and embers. He double-checked his gear and his hand tightened around the expensive broomstick he was holding, trying not to come off as too nervous. It had been quite some time since he had mustered the courage to get back on a broom again. The last time being during the war, in the Room of Requirement. He shuddered to recall the night he was seated directly behind Saint Potter, grasping tightly to the lad while flames of the Fiendfyre licked his heels.

When he finally stepped out onto the pitch, he was inwardly pleased to find that everything looked exactly the same as it had before. Fresher posts, but who cared? It was everything he needed it to be in order to forget.

Just for now. Just for a _moment_.

"It's about time," Theo bellowed across the pitch, standing impatiently next to Blaise. Draco purposely slowed his steps, broom in hand, just so he could watch the two boys slap their hands at their sides and marvel at his turtle pace. Inwardly, he cackled. Outwardly, he donned that traditional Malfoy smirk, mentally preparing himself to get rid of whatever tenderness he may have felt briefly, back in the Heads' dorm bathroom.

He would run himself into the ground during this practice. He would crawl back to the Heads' dormitory, collapse onto his bed, eventually wake up, and slip back into his old skin by the time he woke up.

"Go your own pace, mate. Not like daylight's going anywhere," Blaise commented loud enough for the blonde bloke to hear. The sarcasm all but dribbled off his tongue. His arms folded across his chest; broom handle tucked into the crook of his elbow, pinned against his side. Clearly unimpressed, but finding the mode of slowness _just_ entertaining enough to accept it.

"I gave it a swift talking-to. It knows its place," Theo accentuated Blaise's impatience. Both of them snickered.

When Draco finally reached them, they rolled their eyes, eager to get themselves up in the air. There was a small pause in speech before Draco's eyebrows raised up in expectation.

"Well," Malfoy began, regarding both of the young men with his notorious arrogance. He gestured to Blaise haphazardly. "You're the captain. Start captaining."

"I'm hoping you're not this slow on the pitch, Draco," Blaise said, feigning disappointment.

Theo smirked, "he's actually hoping you are. He's so fragile about his abilities."

"Whatever," Draco scoffed out, straddling the broom handle. "You ready to kick off or what?"

"Oh, now you're ready," Theo said.

"I've been waiting on you two this whole time, and..." Malfoy checked the position of the sun, "there's not much daylight left."

Blaise snorted, finding the innocence he faked rather entertaining.

"Don't play coy, Draco. You're horrible at it."

Draco pointed at Blaise, sticking his chin out defiantly. "You take that back," he spat.

Nott decided just then to kick off from the grass without warning. There was a resounding, " _haha, too slow!_ " that echoed from his point high above the pitch as he began swerving around the goal posts, whooping and hollering obscenities that only made Blaise and Draco chuckle as they watched him swerve and dive like a maniac. Theo almost ran into all three goal posts as he tried to skillfully swoop through them.

It wasn't until he had made a comment about their mothers that Draco and Blaise decided to take off on their brooms as well, intent on throttling the sorry sod mid-air. For a moment, it was as if all three of them had forgotten that the whole of the wizarding world was suffering the aftermath of some terrible war. It was all left behind; forgotten. The pitch was dimming and complacent, reminiscent of both good and bad times. Restored to its former glory in a way that made them children again, in spite of their forced adulthood.

They became precisely what they ought to be. Reckless teens with death wishes and very, _very_ fast brooms.

* * *

 **A/N** :

This is going to be the lengthiest author's note I've posted thus far. Apologies.

I also apologize if this particular chapter was not entirely up to par. I was struggling to get past a particular hiccup in my writing. I should be back on track in no time.

I really must give a special shout-out to **Flightless Hope** , who has taken the time to read through and review every single chapter posted of this story so far, and who has also provided me with a very intense inspiration, which I have been searching for in regards to writing these next few chapters. In return, I want to recommend Flightless Hope's stories, which have quickly become personal favorites of mine: _We'll Be Legendary_ and _Touchstone_ , among others. Hope's a wonderful writer and ought to be appreciated for her works.

Thank you, Hope, for your unfailing support and contribution to my muse.

Since we're on the topic, I also wanted to thank the rest of you reviewers, who have offered me wonderful insight, advice, and encouragement. Though I might not have time to respond to each of you individually, please know that I do read what you write to me, and I always appreciate every word. You are all my fuel and my inspiration to continue this story.

Please note that I hardly discourage constructive criticism. Majority of what I've written so far is rough-draft work. When I finish the story entirely, I will likely be going through and making a few changes. In this process, I will be taking whatever constructive criticism the reviewers give me into consideration. Within reason, of course. So feel free to post whatever notions, ideas, or even inconsistencies I may have overlooked. I tend to miss things quite a bit.

Thank you all for your support and your kindness.

\- coddiwomple.


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